«* 


VERIES 


A    BACHELOR. 


OR 


OF  THE  HEART. 


BY  IK  MARVEL. 


It  is  worth  the  labor —  saith  Plotinus  —  to  consider  well  of  Love,  whether 
&  be  a  God.,  or  a  diveli,  or  passion  of  the  minde,  or  partly  God,  partly  diveli' 
partly  passion.  —  BURTON'S  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY,  Part  III.  Sec.  i. 


A   NEW  EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  CougrtoB,  in  the  year  1863,  l*> 

CHAKLES  ScRiBNEtt, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,     CAMBRIDGE: 

STIKIOTYPID     AND     PRINTED     B» 
H.  0    HOU4HTON   AMD  COMPANY 


TO 

ONE  AT  HOME, 

IK   WHOM  ARE  MET  SO  MANY  OF  THE  GRACES  AND 
THE  VIRTUES,   OF  WHICH  AS  BACHELOR 

I  DREAMED, 
THIS  yew  BDmoy  OF  JTY  BOO* 

IS  DEDICA.TBD. 


A  NEW  PREFACE. 


MY  publisher  has  written  me  that  the  old  type  of 
this  book  of  the  Reveries  are  so  far  worn  and 
battered,  that  they  will  bear  no  further  usage  ;  and,  in 
view  of  a  new  edition,  he  asks  for  such  revision  of  the 
text  as  I  may  deem  judicious,  and  for  a  few  lines  in  way 
of  preface. 

I  began  the  revision.  I  scored  out  word  after  word ; 
presently  I  came  to  the  scoring  out  of  paragraphs  ;  and 
before  I  had  done,  I  was  making  my  scores  by  the  page. 

It  would  never  do.  It  might  be  the  better,  but  it 
would  not  be  the  same.  I  cannot  lop  away  those  twelve 
swift,  changeful  years  that  are  gone. 

Middle  age  does  not  look  on  life  like  youth ;  we  can 
not  make  it.  And  why  mix  the  years  and  the  thoughts  ? 
Let  the  young  carry  their  own  burdens,  and  banner ; 
and  we  —  ours. 

I  have  determined  not  to  touch  the  book.  A  race 
has  grown  up  which  may  welcome  its  youngness,  and 
find  a  spirit  or  a  sentiment  in  it  that  cleaves  to  them, 
and  cheers  them,  and  is  true.  I  hope  they  will. 

For  me  those  young  years  are  gone.    I  cannot  go 


6  A   NEW    PREFACE. 

back  to  that  tide.  I  hear  the  rush  of  it  in  quiet  hours, 
like  the  murmur  of  lost  music.  The  companions  who 
discussed  with  me  these  little  fantasies  as  they  came 
reeking  from  the  press,  —  and  suggested  how  I  might 
have  mended  matters  by  throwing  in  a  new  light  here, 
or  deepening  the  shadows  there,  —  are  no  longer  within 
ear-shot.  If  living,  they  are  widely  scattered ;  —  heads 
of  young  families,  maybe,  who  will  bring  now  to  the 
re-reading  of  passages  they  thought  too  sombre,  the  light 
of  such  bitter  experience  as,  ten  years  since,  neither 
they  nor  I  had  fathomed.  Others  are  dapper,  elderly 
bachelors,  —  coquetting  with  the  world  in  the  world's 
great  cities,  —  brisk  in  their  step,  —  coaxing  all  the 
features  of  youth  to  stay  by  them,  —  brushing  their  hair 
with  needless  and  nervous  frequency  over  the  growing 
spot  of  baldness,  —  perversely  reckoning  themselves 
still  proper  mates  for  girlhood,  —  dreaming  yet  (as  we 
once  dreamed  together)  of  an  Elysium  in  store,  and  of 
a  fairy  future,  where  only  roses  shall  bloom. 

The  houses  where  I  was  accustomed  to  linger  show 

O 

other  faces  at  the  windows,  —  bright  and  cheery  faces,  it 
is  true,  —  but  they  are  looking  over  at  a  young  fellow 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  way. 

The  children  who  sat  for  my  pictures  are  grown ;  the 
boys  I  watched  at  their  game  of  taw,  and  who  clapped 
their  hands  gleefully  at  a  good  shot,  are  buttoned 
into  natty  blue  frocks,  and  wear  little  lace-bordered 
bands  upon  their  shoulders;  and  over  and  over,  as  J 
read  my  morning  paper,  I  am  brought  to  sudden  pause, 


A   NEW  PREFACE.  " 

mid  a  strange  electric  current  thrills  me,  as  I  come  upon 
their  boy-names  printed  in  the  dead-roll  of  the  war. 

The  girls  who  wore  the  charming  white  pinafores,  and 
a  wild  tangle  of  flaxen  curls,  have  now  netted  up  all 
those  clustering  tresses  into  a  stately  Pompadour  head 
dress  ;  and  they  rustle  past  me  in  silks,  and  do  not  know 
me. 

The  elderly  friends  who  cheered  me  with  kindly  ex 
pressions  of  look  and  tongue  —  I  am  compelled  to  say 
—  now  trip  in  their  speech  ;  and  I  observe  a  little  mo 
rocco  case  at  their  elbows  —  for  eye-glasses. 

And  as  they  put  them  on,  to  read  what  I  may  be  say 
ing  now,  let  them  keep  their  old  charity,  and  think  as 
well  of  me  as  they  can. 

EnoiwooD.  1862. 


PREFACE. 


TUIIS  book  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it  pretends 
to  be :  it  is  a  collection  of  those  floating  Reveries 
which  have,  from  time  to  time,  drifted  across  my  brain. 
I  never  yet  met  with  a  bachelor  who  had  not  his  share 
of  just  such  floating  visions ;  and  the  only  difference 
between  us  lies  in  the  fact  that  I  have  tossed  them  from 
me  in  the  shape  of  a  Book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more  unity  of 
design,  I  dare  say  I  might  have  made  a  respectable 
novel ;  as  it  is,  I  have  chosen  the  honester  way  of  setting 
them  down  as  they  came  seething  from  my  thought,  with 
all  their  crudities  and  contrasts,  uncovered. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the  world  may  be 
lieve  what  it  likes ;  for  having  written  to  humor  the 
world,  it  would  be  hard  if  I  should  curtail  any  of  its. 
privileges  of  judgment.  I  should  think  there  was  as 
much  truth  in  them  as  in  most  Reveries. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already  had  some 
publicity ;  and  the  criticisms  upon  it  have  amused  and 
pleased  me.  One  honest  journalist  avows  that  it  could 
never  have  been  written  by  a  bachelor.  I  thank  him 


10  PREFACE. 

for  thinkiug  so  well  of  me,  and  heartily  wish  that  hia 
thought  were  as  true  as  it  is  kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bachelors  are  the  only 
safe  and  secure  observers  of  all  the  phases  of  married 
life.  The  rest  of  the  world  have  their  hobbies,  and  by 
law,  as  well  as  by  immemorial  custom,  are  reckoned 
unfair  witnesses  in  everything  relating  to  their  matri 
monial  affairs. 

Perhaps  I  ought  however  to  make  an  exception  in 
favor  of  spinsters,  who,  like  us,  are  independent  spec 
tators,  and  possess  just  that  kind  of  indifference  to  the 
marital  state  which  makes  them  intrepid  in  their  obser 
vations,  and  very  desirable  for  —  authorities. 

As  for  the  style  of  the  book,  I  have  nothing  to  say  for 
it,  except  to  refer  to  my  title.  These  are  not  sermons, 
nor  essays,  nor  criticisms  ;  —  they  are  only  Reveries. 
And  if  the  reader  should  stumble  upon  occasional  mag 
niloquence,  or  be  worried  with  a  little  too  much  of  sen 
timent,  pray  let  him  remember  —  that  I  am  dreaming 

But  while  I  say  this  in  the  hope  of  nicking  off  the 
wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judgment,  I  shall  yet  stand  up 
boldly  for  the  general  tone  and  character  of  the  book. 
Tf  there  is  bad  feeling  in  it,  or  insincerity,  or  shallow 
sentiment,  or  any  foolish  depth  of  affection  betrayed,  — 
I  am  responsible ;  and  the  critics  may  expose  it  to  their 
heart's  content 

I  have  moreover  a  kindly  feeling  for  these  Reveries 
from  their  very  private  character :  they  consist  mainly 


PREFACE.  11 

of  just  such  whiniseys,  and  reflections,  as  a  great  manj 
brother  bachelors  are  apt  to  indulge  in,  but  which  they 
are  too  cautious,  or  too  prudent,  to  lay  before  the  world. 
As  I  have  in  this  matter  shown  a  frankness  and  naivete 
which  are  unusual,  I  shall  ask  a  corresponding  frankness 
in  my  reader ;  and  I  can  assure  him  safely  that  this  is 
eminently  one  of  those  books  which  were  "  never  in 
tended  for  publication." 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may  quicken  the 
reader's  charity,  and  screen  me  from  cruel  judgment. 
I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK  MABVEL, 

Niw  YCBK,  Nov.  1850 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST  REVERIE. 

Rft0B 

'Jrrm.  A  Wooo-FiM .  r 

L  SMOU — aGximve  Door     ...  £ 

IL  BLAZK — sicjonrraa  f^*mmm        ....  JC 

HI. 


SECOND  REVERIE. 
BY  A  Crrr  GKITB    .........      U 


L  SKA-COAL    .......  «D 

IL  AjnvKAOOK  .  .... 


THIRD  REVERIE. 

DTK*  HIS  CIG AX tt 

L  LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL        ......  99 

D.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  Wur  or  PAHS  IU 

ILL  Luamro  WITH  A  MATOP UK 

FOURTH  REVERIE. 

.,  Soon,  ASTD  EwKimu        .       ....  141 

SCBOOb-IkATS    ......            .            .  157 

THK  SKA  • 


AEoouji  Gn. .si 

THX  ATULUJOB      ......  194 

EMMA  i« 


CONTENTS. 

MM 

IL  NOOS  — WHICH   IS  THE   PRESEJJT        ....  210 

EARLY  FRIENDS 212 

SCHOOL  REVISITED 220 

COLLEGE 225 

THE  PACKET  OF  BELLA.       ...  >  233 

III,  EVEXING  —  WHICH  IS  THE  FUTURE      ....  241 

CARRY ,  245 

THE  LETTER .  253 

NEW  TRAVEL 169 

Eoau  .  ..... 


FIRST  REVERIE. 
SMOKE,  FLAME,  AND  ASHES. 


OVER  A    WOOD-FIRE. 


1  HAVE  got  a  quiet  farm-house  in  the  country,  a  verj 
•*-  humble  place  to  be  sure,  tenanted  by  a  worthy 
enough  man,  of  the  old  New-England  stamp,  where  I 
sometimes  go  for  a  day  or  two  in  the  winter,  to  look 
over  the  farm  accounts,  and  to  see  how  the  stock  is 
thriving  on  the  winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the  porch,  is  a 
little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet  by  ten,  with  a  cosy-look 
ing  fireplace,  a  heavy  oak  floor,  a  couple  of  arm-chairs, 
and  a  brown  table  with  carved  lions'  feet.  Out  of  this 
room  opens  a  little  cabinet,  only  big  enough  for  a  broad 
bachelor  bedstead,  where  I  sleep  upon  feathers,  and 
wake  in  the  morning  with  my  eye  upon  a  saucy  colored 
lithographic  print  of  some  fancy  "  Bessy." 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the  world  of 
which  I  »m  bona-fide  owner ;  and  I  take  a  vast  deal  of 
comfort  in  treating  it  just  as  I  choose.  I  manage  tc 
break  some  article  of  furniture  almost  every  time  I  pay 
it  a  visit ;  and  if  I  cannot  open  the  window  readilv  of  a 


18  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

morning,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  I  knock  out  a  pane  01 
two  of  glass  with  my  boot.  I  lean  against  the  walls  in 
a  very  old  arm-chair  there  is  on  the  premises,  and  scarce 
ever  fail  to  worry  such  a  hole  in  the  plastering  as  would 
set  me  down  for  a  round  charge  for  damages  in  town,  01 
make  a  prim  housewife  fret  herself  into  a  raging  fever, 
I  laugh  out  loud  with  myself,  in  my  big  arm-chair,  when 
1  think  that  I  am  neither  afraid  of  one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so  hot  as  to 
warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and  the  whole  space  be 
tween  the  jambs  roars  for  hours  together  with  white 
flame.  To  be  sure,  the  windows  are  not  very  tight,  be 
tween  broken  panes  and  bad  joints,  so  that  the  fire, 
large  as  it  is,  Is  by  no  means  an  extravagant  comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile  of  oak  and 
hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth  ;  I  put  out  the  tallow 
candle  on  the  mantel,  (using  the  family  snuffers,  with 
one  leg  broke,)  then,  drawing  my  chair  directly  in  front 
of  the  blazing  wood,  and  setting  one  foot  on  each  of 
the  old  iron  fire-dogs,  (until  they  grow  too  warm,)  I  dis 
pose  myself  for  an  evening  of  such  sober  and  thought 
ful  quietude,  as  I  believe,  on  my  soul,  that  very  few  of 
my  fellow-men  have  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

My  tenant,  meantime,  in  the  other  room,  I  can  hear 
iow  and  then,  though  there  is  a  thick  stone  chimney 
and  broad  entry  between,  multiplying  contrivances  with 
his  wife  to  put  two  babies  to  <jleep  This  occupies 


OVER  A    WOOD-FIRE.  19 

diem,  I  should  say,  usually  an  hour;  though  my  only 
measure  of  time  (for  I  never  carry  a  watch  into  the 
country)  is  the  blaze  of  my  fire.  By  ten,  or  there 
abouts,  my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly  exhausted  ;  I  pile 
upon'  the  hot  coals  what  remains,  and  sit  watching  how 
it  kindles,  and  blazes,  and  goes  out,  —  even  like  our 
joys  !  —  and  then  slip  by  the  light  of  the  embers  into 
my  bed,  where  I  luxuriate  in  such  sound  and  healthful 
slumber  as  only  such  rattling  window-frames,  and  coun 
try  air,  can  supply. 

But  to  return.  The  other  evening,  —  it  happened  to 
be  on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm-house,  —  when  I  had 
exhausted  all  the  ordinary  rural  topics  of  thought,  had 
formed  all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to  the  income  of  the 
year ;  had  planned  a  new  wall  around  one  lot,  and  the 
clearing  up  of  another,  now  covered  with  patriarchal 
wood ;  and  wondered  if  the  little  rickety  house  would 
not  be  after  all  a  snug  enough  box  to  live  and  to  die 
in.  —  I  fell  on  a  sudden  into  such  an  unprecedented  line 
of  thought,  which  took  such  deep  hold  of  my  sympathies 
—  sometimes  even  starting  tears  —  that  I  determined, 
the  next  day,  to  set  <vs  inch  of  it  as  I  could  recall,  ou 
paper. 

Something  —  it  may  have  been  the  home-looking 
blaze,  (I  am  a  bachelor  of —  say  six  and  twenty,)  or 
possibly  a  plaintive  cry  of  the  baby  in  my  tenant's 
room  —  had  suggested  to  me  the  thought  of — Mar 
riage. 


20  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-d^gs  the  last  armful  of 
my  wood  ;  and  now,  said  I,  bracing  myself  courageously 
between  the  arms  of  my  chair,  I  '11  not  flinch  ;  I  '11  pur 
sue  the  thought  wherever  it  leads,  though  it  lead  me  to 

the  d ,  (I  am  apt  to  be  hasty,)  —  at  least,  continued 

I,  softening,  until  my  fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed  no  disposi 
lion  to  blaze.  It  smoked  furiously.  Smoke,  thought  I. 
always  goes  before  blaze  ;  and  so  does  doubt  go  before 
decision  :  and  my  Reverie,  from  that  very  starting  point 
slipped  into  this  shape :  — 


Smoke — Signifying  Doubt. 

\    WIFE  ?  —  thought  I ;  —  yes,  a  wife  ! 
^-^-    And  why ! 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not  —  why  ?  Why  not 
iloubt ;  why  not  hesitate  ;  why  not  tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery  —  a  poor  man, 
whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to  secure  the  ticket  — 
without  trembling,  hesitating,  and  doubting  ? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectability,  his 
independence  and  comfort,  upon  the  die  of  absorbing, 
unchanging,  relentless  marriage,  without  trembling  at 
the  venture  ? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase  his  fancies 
over  the  wide  world,  without  let  or  hindrance,  shut 
himself  up  to  marriage-ship,  within  four  walls  called 
Home,  that  are  to  claim  him,  his  time,  his  trouble,  and 
his  tears,  thenceforward  forevermore,  without  doubts 
thick,  and  thick-coming  as  Smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere  observer  of 
other  men's  cares  and  business,  —  moving  off  where 


22  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

they  made  him  sick  of  heart,  approaching  whenever 
and  wherever  they  made  him  gleeful,  —  shall  he  now 
undertake  administration  of  just  such  cares  and  busi 
ness,  without  qualms  ?  Shall  he,  whose  whole  life  has 
been  but  a  nimble  succession  of  escapes  from  trifling 
difficulties,  now  broach  without  doublings  —  that  Matri 
mony,  where  if  difficulty  beset  him,  there  is  no  escape . 
Shall  this  brain  of  mine,  careless-working,  never  tired 
with  idleness,  feeding  on  long  vagaries  and  high  gigan 
tic  castles,  dreaming  out  beatitudes  hour  by  hour,  — 
turn  itself  at  length  to  such  dull  task-work,  as  thinking 
out  a  livelihood  for  wife  and  children  ? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny  dreams  in 
which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies  and  my  heart,  and 
lighted  my  eye  with  crystal  ?  This  very  marriage, 
which  a  brilliant  working  imagination  has  invested  time 
and  again  with  brightness  and  delight,  can  serve  nc 
longer  as  a  mine  for  teeming  fancy :  all,  alas !  will  be 
gone  —  reduced  to  the  dull  standard  of  the  actual ! 
\o  more  room  for  intrepid  forays  of  imagination  —  no 
n  ore  gorgeous  realm-making  —  all  will  be  over  ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming  ? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after-dinner  fancy, 
idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint  for  you  ?  Can  any  chil 
dren  make  less  noise  than  the  little,  rosy-cheeked  ones, 
who  have  no  existence  except  in  the  omnium  gatherum 
of  your  own  brain  ?  Can  any  housewife  be  more  unex 


SMOKE  — SIGNIFYING   DOUBT.  28 

leptiouable  than  she  who  goes  sweeping  daintily  the  cob 
webs  that  gather  in  your  dreams  ?  Can  any  domestic 
larder  be  better  stocked  than  the  private  larder  of 
your  head  dozing  on  a  cushioned  chair-back  at  Del- 
monico's  ?  Can  any  family  purse  be  better  filled  thai 
the  exceeding  plump  one  you  dream  of,  after  reading 
such  pleasant  books  as  Munchhausen,  or  Typee? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be,  —  duty,  or  what-not,  mak 
ing  provocation,  —  what  then  ?  And  I  clapped  my  feet 
hard  against  the  fire-dogs,  and  leaned  back,  and  turned 
my  face  to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say,  —  And  where 
on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil  look  for  a  wife  ? 

Somebody  says,  Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbury  I  think, 
that  "  marriages  would  be  happier  if  they  were  all 
arranged  by  the  Lord  Chancellor."  Unfortunately,  we 
have  no  Lord  Chancellor  to  make  this  commutation  of 
our  misery. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a  mule's 
back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias  of  Santillane  ;  or  shall  he 
make  application  to  some  such  intervening  providence 
as  Madame  St.  Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the  Presse, 
manages  these  matters  to  one's  hand  for  some  five  per 
lent  on  the  fortunes  of  the  parties? 

I  have  trouted,  when  the  brook  was  so  low,  and  the 
»ky  so  hot,  that  I  might  as  well  have  thrown  my  fly 
ipon  the  turnpike ;  and  I  have  hunted  hare  at  noon, 
and  woodcock  in  snow-time,  never  despairing,  scarce 


21  ZSVER1ES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

doubting  j  but  for  a  poor  hunter  of  his  kind,  without 
traps  or  snares,  or  any  aid  of  police  or  constabulary, 
to  traverse  the  world,  where  are  swarming,  on  a  mod 
erate  computation,  some  three  hundred  and  odd  mill 
ions  of  unmarried  women,  for  a  single  capture  —  irre 
mediable,  unchangeable  —  and  yet  a  capture  which,  by 
gtrange  metonymy  not  laid  down  in  the  books,  is  very 
apt  to  turn  captor  into  captive,  and  make  game  of 
hunter, —  all  this,  surely,  surely  may  make  a  man  shrug 
with  doubt ! 

Then,  again,  —  there  are  the  plaguey  wife's  rela 
tions.  Who  knows  how  many  third,  fourth,  or  fifth 
cousins  will  appear  at  careless  complimentary  intervals, 
long  after  you  had  settled  into  the  placid  belief  that 
all  congratulatory  visits  were  at  an  end?  How  many 
twisted-headed  brothers  will  be  putting  in  their  advice, 
as  a  friend  to  Peggy  ? 

How  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to  spend  a  month 
or  two  with  their  "  dear  Peggy,"  and  want  to  know 
every  tea-time  "  if  she  is  n't  a  dear  love  of  a  wife  ?  " 
Then,  dear  father-in-law  will  beg  (taking  dear  Peggy's 
hand  in  his)  to  give  a  little  wholesome  counsel ;  and 
will  be  very  sure  to  advise  just  the  contrary  of  what 
you  had  determined  to  undertake.  And  dear  mamma- 
in-law  must  set  her  nose  into  Peggy's  cupboard,  and 
insist  upon  having  the  key  to  your  own  private  lockei 
ji  the  wainscot. 


SMOKE  —  SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  26 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of  dirty  nosed 
nephews  who  come  to  spend  the  holidays,  and  eat  up 
your  East  India  sweetmeats;  and  who  are  forever 
tramping  over  your  head,  or  raising  the  old  Harry  be- 
low,  while  you  are  busy  with  your  clients.  Last,  and 
worst,  is  some  fidgety  old  uncle,  forever  too  cold  or  too 
hot,  who  vexes  you  with  his  patronizing  airs,  and  impu 
dently  kisses  his  little  Peggy ! 

That  could  be  borne,  however  ;  for  perhaps  he 

has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy.  Peggy,  then,  will 
be  rich :  (and  the  thought  made  me  rub  my  shins, 
which  were  now  getting  comfortably  warm  upon  the 
fire-dogs.)  Then,  she  will  be  forever  talking  of  her 
fortune ;  and  pleasantly  reminding  you,  on  occasion 
of  a  favorite  purchase,  how  lucky  that  she  had  the 
means  ;  and  dropping  hints  about  economy ;  and  buy 
ing  very  extravagant  Paisleys. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the  stock-list  at 
breakfast-time  ;  and  mention  quite  carelessly  to  your 
clients  that  she  is  interested  in  such  or  such  a  specu 
lation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you  hint  to  a 
tradesman  that  you  have  not  the  money  by  you  foi 
his  small  bill ;  in  short,  she  will  tear  the  life  out  of 
you,  making  you  pay  in  righteous  retribution  of  annoy 
ance,  grief,  vexation,  shame,  and  sickness  of  heart,  foi 
the  superlative  folly  of  "  marrying  rich." 


iitf  REVERlbb    Ob    A   BACHhLOti. 

But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.  Bah  !  the  thought 

made  me  stir  the  coals ;  but  there  was  still  no  blaze. 
The  paltry  earnings  you  are  able  to  wring  out  of  clients 
by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  will  now  be  all  our  income ; 
you  will  be  pestered  for  pin-money,  and  pestered  with 
your  poor  wife's  relations.  Ten  to  one,  she  will  stickle 
about  taste,  —  "  Sir  Visto's,"  —  and  want  to  make  this 
so  pretty,  and  that  so  charming,  if  she  only  had  the 
means ;  and  is  sure  Paul  (a  kiss)  can't  deny  his  little 
Peggy  such  a  trifling  sum,  and  all  for  the  common 
benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  children  sha'n't 
go  a-begging  for  clothes, — and  another  pull  at  the 
purse.  Trust  a  poor  mother  to  dress  her  children  in 
finery ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly ;  not  noticeable  at  first,  but 
growing  on  her,  and  (what  is  worse)  growing  faster 
on  you.  You  wonder  why  you  did  n't  see  that  vulgar 
nose  long  ago ;  and  that  lip  —  it  is  very  strange,  you 
think,  that  you  ever  thought  it  pretty.  And  then,  to 
come  to  breakfast,  with  her  hair  looking  as  it  does, 
and  you  not  so  much  as  daring  to  say,  "  Peggy,  do 
brush  your  hair !  "  Her  foot  too  —  not  very  bad  when 
decently  chaussee  —  but  now  since  she  's  married  she 
does  wear  such  infernal  slippers  !  And  yet  for  all  this, 
to  be  prigging  up  for  an  hour  when  any  of  my  old 
shums  come  to  dine  with  me ! 


SMOKE  — SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  27 

'  Bless  your  kind  hearts  my  dear  fellows,"  said  I 
thrusting  the  tongs  into  the  coals,  and  speaking  out 
loud,  as  if  my  voice  could  reach  from  Virginia  to  Paris : 
''  not  married  yet !  " 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough,  only  shrewish. 

No  matter  for  cold  coffee ;  you  should  have  been 

np  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to  eat  with  youi 
rolls! 

She  thinks  they  are  very  good,  and  wonders  how 

you  can  set  such  an  example  to  your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you  '11  not  raise 

i  storm  about  butter  a  little  turned.  I  think  I  see 
myself,  ruminated  I,  sitting  meekly  at  table,  scarce  dar 
ing  to  lift  up  my  eyes,  utterly  fagged  out  with  some 
quarrel  of  yesterday,  choking  down  detestably  sour 
muffins,  that  my  wife  thinks  are  "delicious,"  slipping  in 
dried  mouthfuls  of  burnt  ham  off  the  side  of  my  fork 
tines,  slipping  off  my  chair  sideways  at  the  end,  and 
slipping  out,  with  my  hat  between  my  knees,  to  business, 
and  never  feeling  myself  a  competent,  sound-minded 
man,  till  the  oak  door  is  between  me  and  Peggy. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  not  yet,"  said  I ;  and  in  so  earnest  a 

tone  that  my  dog  started  to  his  feet,  cocked  his  eye  to 
have  a  good  look  into  my  face,  met  my  smile  of  tri 
umph  with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail,  and  curled  up 
igain  in  the  corne- 


28  REVERIES    OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough,  mild 
enough,  only  she  does  n't  care  a  fig  for  you.  She  lias 
married  you  because  father  or  grandfather  thought  the 
match  eligible,  and  because  she  did  n't  wish  to  disoblige 
them.  Besides,  she  did  n't  positively  hate  you,  and 
thought  you  were  a  respectable  enough  young  person  ; 
she  has  told  you  so  repeatedly  at  dinner.  She  wonders 
you  like  to  read  poetry ;  she  wishes  you  would  buy  her 
a  good  cook-book,  and  insists  upon  your  making  your 
will  at  the  birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid-looking 
fellow,  and  wishes  you  would  trim  up  a  little,  were  i* 
only  for  appearance'  sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  so  early  at 
night :  she,  bless  her  dear  heart !  does  not  feel  lonely 
You  read  to  her  a  love-tale  :  she  interrupts  the  pathetic 
parts  with  directions  to  her  seamstress.  You  read  of 
marriages :  she  sighs,  and  asks  if  Captain  So-and-So 
aas  left  town !  She  hates  to  be  mewed  up  in  a  cottage, 
or  between  brick  walls  ;  she  does  so  love  the  Springs  ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you ;  at  least  she  swears  it, 
with  her  hand  on  the  "  Sorrows  of  Werther."  She  has 
pin-money  which  she  spends  for  the  "  Literary  World  " 
and  the  "  Friends  in  Council."  She  is  not  bad-looking 
save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead ;  nor  is  she  sluttish, 
unless  a  neglige  till  three  o'clock,  and  an  ink-stain  on 
die  forefinger  be  sluttish ;  but  then  she  is  such  a  sad 
tfae! 


SMOKE  — SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  29 

You  never  fancied,  when  you  saw  her  buried  in  a 
ihree-volume  novel,  that  it  was  anything  more  than  a 
girlish  vagary  ;  and  when  she  quoted  Latin,  you  thought 
innocently  that  she  had  a  capital  memory  for  her  sam 
plers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  divine  Dante  and 
funny  Goldoni,  is  too  bad.  Your  copy  of  Tasso,  a 
treasure  print  of  1 680,  is  all  bethumbed  and  dogs-eared, 
and  spotted  with  baby-gruel.  Even  your  Seneca  —  an 
Elzevir  —  is  all  sweaty  with  handling.  She  adores  La 
Fontaine,  reads  Balzac  with  a  kind  of  artist-scowl,  and 
will  not  let  Greek  alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching  head  at  break 
fast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a  scrap  of  Anthology,  in  lieu 
of  the  camphor-bottle,  or  chant  the  alal,  alal,  of  tragic 
chorus. 

The  nurse  is  getting  dinner;  you  are  holding 

the  baby  ;  Peggy  is  reading  Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed  out  little 
clouds  over  the  chimney-piece.  I  gave  the  fore-stick  a 
kick,  at  the  thought  of  Peggy,  baby,  and  Bruyere. 

Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely  athwart  the 

iinoke,  caught  at  a  twig  below,  rolled  round  the  mossy 
jak  stick,  twined  among  the  crackling  tree  -  limbs-, 
mounted,  lit  up  the  whole  body  of  smoke,  and  blazed 
:»it  cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt  vanished  with  Smoke 
und  Hope  began  with  Flame. 


II. 

Blaze  —  Siym/ying  Cheer. 

I     PUSHED   my   chair   back  ;    drew    up    another 
•*-    stretched  out   my  feet  cosily  upon  it,  rested   my 
elbows  on  the  chair-arms,  leaned  my  head  on  one  hand, 
und  looked  straight  into  the  leaping  and  dancing  flame 

Love  is  a  flame,  ruminated  I ;   and  (glancing 

round  the  room)  how  a  flame  brightens  up  a  man's  hab 
itation. 
» 

"  Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into  the  light ; 
"  good  fellow,  Carlo  ! "  and  I  patted  him  kindly  ;  and  he 
wagged  his  tail,  and  laid  his  nose  across  my  knee,  and 
looked  wistfully  up  in  my  face  ;  then  strode  away,  turned 
to  look  again,  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

"  Pho,  the  brute  ! "  said  I ;  "it  is  not  enough,  after 
aJl,  to  like  a  dog." 

If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the  one  your 

foet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside  you,  —  closer  yet,  — • 
were  seated  a  sweet-faced  girl,  with  a  pretty  little  foot 
Tying  out  upon  the  hearth,  a  bit  of  lace  running  round 
the  swelling  throat,  the  hair  parted  to  a  charm  over  n 


BLAZE— SIGNIFYING  CHEER.  3J 

forehead  fair  as  any  of  your  dreams,  —  and  if  you  could 
reach  an  arm  round  that  chair-back,  without  fear  of 
giving  offence,  and  suffer,  your  fingers  to  play  idly  with 
those  curls  that  escape  down  the  neck,  —  and  if  you 
could  clasp  with  your  other  hand  those  little,  white, 
taper  fingers  of  hers,  which  lie  so  temptingly  within 
reach,  and  so,  talk  softly  and  low  in  presence  of  the 
blaze,  while  the  hours  slip  without  knowledge,  and  the 
winter  winds  whistle  uncared  for,  —  if,  in  short,  you 
were  no  bachelor,  but  the  husband  of  some  such  sweet 
image,  (dream,  call  it  rather,)  would  it  not  be  far  pleas- 
anter  than  this  cold,  single,  night-sitting,  counting  the 
sticks,  reckoning  the  length  of  the  bla/.e,  and  the  height 
of  the  falling  snow  ? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries  that  grow 
on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour,  you  could  whisper  into 
listening  because  loving  ears,  —  ears  not  tired  with  lis 
tening,  because  it  is  you  who  whisper,  —  ears  ever  in 
dulgent,  because  eager  to  praise,  —  and  if  your  darkest 
fancies  were  lit  up,  not  merely  with  bright  wood-fire, 
but  with  a  ringing  laugh  of  that  sweet  face  turned  up 
in  fond  rebuke,  —  how  far  better,  than  to  be  waxing 
black  and  sour  over  pestilential  humors,  alone,  —  your 
fery  dog  asleep  ? 

And  if,  when  a  glowing  thought  comes  into  youi 
Drain,  quick  and  sudden,  you  could  tell  it  over  as  to  a 
tecond  self,  to  that  sweet  creature,  who  is  not  away 


32  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

because  she  loves  to  be  there ;  and  if  you  could  watch 
the  thought  catching  that  girlish  mind,  illuming  that 
fair  brow,  sparkling  in  those  pleasantest  of  eyes,  —  how 
far  better  than  to  feel  it  slumbering,  and  going  out, 
heavy,  lifeless,  and  dead,  in  your  own  selfish  fancy. 
And  if  a  generous  emotion  steals  over  you,  coming 
you  know  not  whither,  would  there  not  be  a  richef 
charm  in  lavishing  it  in  caress,  or  endearing  word, 
upon  that  fondest  and  most  dear  one,  than  in  patting 
your  glossy  coated  dog,  or  sinking  lonely  to  smiling 
slumbers  ? 

How  would  not  benevolence  ripen  with  such  monitor 
to  task  it !  How  would  not  selfishness  grow  faint  and 
dull,  leaning  ever  to  that  second  self,  which  is  the 
loved  one !  How  would  not  guile  shiver,  and  grow 
weak,  before  that  girl-brow,  and  eye  of  innocence ! 
How  would  not  all  that  boyhood  prized  of  enthusiasm, 
and  quick  blood,  and  life,  renew  itself  in  such  pres 
ence  ! 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved  into  the 
uiiddle  of  the  room.  The  shadows  the  flames  made 
were  playing  like  fairy  forms  over  floor,  and  wall,  and 
ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought  I,  if  such 
being  were  in  attendance.  Surely  imagination  would 
be  stronger  and  purer,  if  it  could  have  the  playful 
fancies  of  dawning  womanhood  to  delight  it.  All  toil 


BLAZE  — SIGNIFYING   CHEER.  33 

ttould  be  torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but  another  heart 
grew  into  this  present  soul,  quickening  it,  warming  it 
cheering  it,  bidding  it  ever  God  speed  ! 

ffer  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a  rainbow,  atop 
of  all  such  noisome  things  as  we  loneiy  souls  call 
trouble.  Her  smile  would  illumine  the  blackest  of 
crowding  cares :  and  darkness  that  now  seats  you  de 
spondent  in  your  solitary  chair  for  days  together, 
weaving  bitter  fancies,  dreaming  bitter  dreams,  would 
grow  light  and  thin,  and  spread  and  float  away,  chased 
by  that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend  —  poor  fellow !  —  dies  :  never  mind,  that 
gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she  steals  behind  you, 
telling  you  not  to  weep,  —  it  is  worth  ten  friends ! 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead — buried.  The  worms 
tre  busy  with  all  her  fairness.  How  it  makes  you  think 
earth  nothing  but  a  spot  to  dig  graves  upon  ! 

It  is  more.  She,  she  says,  will  be  a  sister ;  and 

the  waving  curls,  as  she  leans  upon  your  shoulder,  touch 
your  cheek,  and  your  wet  eye  turns  to  meet  those  other 
eyes  —  God  has  sent  his  angel,  surely  ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,  she  is  gone  !  Is  there  any 
bUterness  to  a  youth,  alone  and  homeless,  like  this  ! 

But  you  are  not  homeless ;  you  are  not  alone :  she 
is  there ;  her  tears  softening  yours,  her  smile  lighting 
yours,  her  grief  killing  yours ;  and  you  live  again,  to 

assuage  that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 
3* 


B4  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Then,  those  children,  rosy,  fair-haired ;  no,  they  do 
not  disturb  you  with  their  prattle  now ;  they  are  yours ! 
Toss  away  there  on  the  greensward  ;  never  mind  the 
hyacinths,  the  snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so  be  any  are 
there :  the  perfume  of  their  healthful  lips  is  worth  all 
the  flowers  of  the  world.  No  need  now  to  gathei 
srild  bouquets  to  love  and  cherish:  flower,  tree,  gun, 
are  all  dead  things ;  things  livelier  hold  your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest  of  all, 
watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving,  till  your  own  heart 
grows  pained  with  tenderest  jealousy,  and  cures  itself 
with  loving. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lecture  to  teach 
thankfulness :  your  heart  is  full  of  it  No  need  now, 
as  once,  of  bursting  blossoms,  of  trees  taking  leaf  and 
greenness,  to  turn  thought  kindly  and  thankfully ;  for 
ever  beside  you  there  is  bloom,  and  ever  beside  you 
there  is  fruit,  for  which  eye,  heart,  and  soul  are  full  of 
unknown  and  unspoken,  because  unspeakable,  thank- 
offering. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you,  lays  you 
down  :  no  lonely  moanings,  and  wicked  curses  at  care 
less  stepping  nurses.  The  step  is  noiseless,  and  yet 
distinct  beside  you.  The  white  curtains  are  drawn,  or 
withdrawn,  by  the  magic  of  that  other  presence ;  and 
ljhe  soft,  cool  hand  is  upon  your  brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend-watchers,  merely  com« 


BLAZE --SIGNIFYING    CHEER.  85 

in  to  steal  a  word  away  from  that  outer  world  which 
is  pulling  at  their  skirts ;  but,  ever,  the  sad,  shaded 
brow  of  her,  whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your  sake  is 
rour  greatest  grief,  if  it  were  not  a  greater  joy. 

The  blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high,  and  the  wood 
ailing  under  the  growing  heat. 

So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be  at  length 

self;  striving  with  everything  gross,  even  now  as  it 
'  Vugs  to  grossness.  Love  would  make  its  strength 
i  ative  and  progressive.  Earth's  cares  would  fly.  Joys 
would  double.  Susceptibilities  be  quickened ;  Love 
master  self;  and  having  made  the  mastery,  stretch  on 
ward,  and  upward  toward  Infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness  brought  that  fol 
lower  —  Great  Follower  —  which  sooner  or  later  is  sure 
to  come  after,  then  the  heart,  and  the  hand  of  Love, 
ever  near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul,  daily  and 
hourly,  lessons  of  that  love  which  consoles,  which  tri 
umphs,  which  circleth  all,  and  centreth  in  all,  —  Love 
Infinite  and  Divine  ! 

Kind  Hands  —  none  but  hers  —  will  smooth  the  hair 
upon  yov  r  brow  as  the  chill  grows  damp  and  heavy  on 
it ;  and  KM  fingers  —  none  but  hers —  will  lie  in  youra 
is  the  washed  flesh  stiffens,  and  hardens  for  the  ground. 
Her  tears  -  you  could  feel  no  others,  if  oceans  fell  — 
yill  warm  y  *ur  drooping  features  once  more  to  life ; 
;nce  more  y^rs  -eye,  lighted  in  joyous  triumph,  kindle 
a  her  smile,  a:4  -\  "hen  — 


36  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth ;  the  blaze  gave  a  last 
leap,  a  flicker,  then  another,  caught  a  little  remaining 
twig,  blazed  up,  wavered,  went  out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing  embers, 
Dver  which  the  white  ashes  gathered  fast  I  nras  aJone, 
urith  only  my  dog  for  company. 


111. 

Ashes  —  Signifying  Desolation. 

A  FTER  all,  thought  I,  ashes  follow  blaze,  inevi- 
tably  as  Death  follows  Life.  Misery  treads  on 
the  heels  of  Joy  ;  Anguish  rides  swift  after  Pleasure. 

"  Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I  to  my  dog ;  and 
I  patted  him  fondly  once  more,  but  now  only  by  the 
light  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in  fondling  brute 
favorites ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that  when  it  passes 
leaves  no  void.  It  is  only  a  little  alleviating  redun 
dance  in  your  solitary  heart-life,  which,  if  lost,  another 
can  be  supplied. 

But  if  your  heart  —  not  solitary,  not  quieting  its  hu 
mors  with  mere  love  of  chase  or  dog,  not  repressing 
year  after  year  its  earnest  yearnings  after  something 
better  and  more  spiritual  —  has  fairly  linked  itself  by 
bonds  strong  as  life  to  another  heart,  is  the  casting  off 
easy,  then  ? 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy  cut  off, 
vhich  the  next  bright  sunset  will  fill  up? 


38  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  doubt  under  the 
smoke,  and  cheer  under  warmth  of  the  blaze,  so  now 
it  began,  under  the  faint  light  of  the  smouldering  em 
bers,  to  picture  heart-desolation. 

What  kind,  congratulatory  letters,  hosts  of  them, 

coming  from  old  and  half-forgotten  friends,  now  thai 
your  happiness  is  a  year,  or  two  years  old ! 

«  Beautiful." 

Aye,  to  be  sure  beautiful ! 

«  Rich." 

Pho,  the  dawdler !  how  little  he  knows  of  heart 

treasure  who  speaks  of  wealth  to  a  man  who  loves  his 
wife  as  a  wife  only  should  be  loved  ! 

"Young." 

Young  indeed ;  guileless  as  infancy  ;  charming 

as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting :  they  bring  to  mind, 
with  new  and  newer  freshness,  if  it  be  possible,  the 
ralue  of  that  which  you  tremble  lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step,  if  it  lose  not  its 
buoyancy ;  how  you  study  the  color  on  that  cheek,  if 
it  grow  not  fainter ;  how  you  tremble  at  the  lustre  in 
those  eyes,  if  it  be  not  the  lustre  of  Death  ;  how  you 
totter  under  the  weight  of  that  muslin  sleeve  —  a  phan« 
torn  weight !  How  you  fear  to  do  it,  and  yet  press 
forward,  to  note  if  that  breathing  be  quickened,  as  you 
ascend  the  home-heights,  to  look  off  on  sunset  lighting 
the  plain. 


ASHES  — SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      89 

Is  your  sleep  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she  has  whis 
pered  to  you  her  fears,  and  in  the  same  breath  —  soft 
as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an  arrov  —  bid  you  bear  it  bravely  ? 

Perhaps  —  the  embers  were  now  glowing  fresher,  a 
little  kindling,  before  the  ashes  —  she  triumphs  over 
disease. 

But  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has  come  to  you 
with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones,  and  you  on 
hope  —  kindling  each  morning,  dying  slowly  each  night, 
—  this  could  be  borne.  Philosophy  would  bring  home 
its  stores  to  the  lone  man.  Money  is  not  in  his  hand, 
but  Knowledge  is  in  his  brain  !  and  from  that  brain 
he  draws  out  faster,  as  he  draws  slower  from  his  pocket. 
He  remembers :  and  on  remembrance  he  can  live  for 
days,  and  weeks.  The  garret,  if  a  garret  covers  him, 
is  rich  in  fancies.  The  rain,  if  it  pelts,  pelts  only  him 
used  to  rain-peltings.  And  his  dog  crouches  not  in 
dread,  but  in  companionship.  His  crust  he  divides 
with  him,  and  laughs.  He  crowns  himself  with  glori 
ous  memories  of  Cervantes,  though  he  begs :  if  he 
nights  it  under  the  stars,  he  dreams  heaven-sent  dreams 
of  the  prisoned  and  homeless  Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of  poor  Jonson's 
plays.  He  chants  Dryden's  odes,  and  dwells  on  Otway's 
rhyme.  He  reasons  with  Bolingbroke  or  Diogenes,  as 
(he  humor  takes  him ;  and  laughs  at  the  world :  for  the 
vorld,  thank  Heaven,  has  left  him  alone ! 


40  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your  palaces,  old 
princes,  —  the  \vorld  is  mine  ! 

"  I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny. 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve. 
•Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave: 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave! " 

But  —  if  not  alone  ? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for  consolation, 
for  home,  for  life,  —  she,  reared  in  luxury  perhaps,  is 
faint  for  bread  ? 

Then,  the  iron  enters  the  soul ;  then  the  nights  darken 
under  any  sky-light.  Then  the  days  grow  long,  even  in 
the  solstice  of  winter. 

She  may  not  complain  ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the  strength  of  her 
love  can  dam  up  the  fountains  of  tears,  and  the  tied 
tongue  not  tell  of  bereavement  ?  Will  it  solace  you  to 
find  her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of  food  you  have 
stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  foodless  children  ? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands,  and  Heaven's  help,  will  put 
Jown.  Wealth  again ;  Flowers  again ;  Patrimonial 
acres  again  ;  Brightness  again.  But  your  little  Bessy, 
pour  favorite  child,  is  pining. 

Would  to  God  !  you  say  in  agony,  that  wealth  could 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.        41 

bring  fulness  again  into  that  blanched  cheek,  or  round 
those  little  thin  lips  once  more ;  but  it  cannot.  Thin 
ner  and  thinner  they  grow  ;  plaintive  and  more  plain 
tive  her  sweet  voice. 

"  Dear  Bessy  "  —  and  your  tones  tremble  ;  you  feel 
that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  ?  Can  you  pluck 
her  back ?  Can  endearments  stay  her?  Business  is 
heavy,  away  from  the  loved  child ;  home  you  go,  to 
fondle  while  yet  time  is  left ;  but  this  time  you  are  too 
late.  She  is  gone.  She  cannot  hear  you :  she  cannot 
thank  you  for  the  violets  you  put  within  her  stiff  white 
hand. 

And  then  —  the  grassy  mound  —  the  cold  shadow  of 
the  headstone  ! 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rattling  at  the 
window-panes,  and  whistles  dismally.  I  wipe  a  tear 
and,  in  the  interval  of  my  Reverie,  thank  God  that  I 
am  no  such  mourner. 

But  gayety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to  the  house 
hold.  All  is  bright  again  ;  — 

the  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter 
Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full ;  her  cheek  delicate  as  a 
8ower.  Her  frailty  doubles  your  love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps  —  frail  too — too  frail 
(.he  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes  and  heart  on.     You 
4ave  watched  him  growing,  ever  prettier,  ever  winning 


42  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

more  and  more  upon  your  soul.    The  love  you  bore  lo 
him  when  he  first  lisped  names  —  your  name  and  hers 

—  has  doubled  in  strength,  now  that  he  asks  innocently 
to  be  taught  of  this  or  that,  and  promises  you,  by  that 
quick  curiosity  that  flashes  in  his  eye,  a  mind  full  of 
ntelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea  or  flood,  that 
he  perhaps  may  have  had,  —  which  unstrung  your  soul 
to  such  tears  as  you  pray  God  may  be  spared  you  again, 

—  has  endeared  the  little  fellow  to  your  heart  a  thou 
sand-fold. 

And  now,  with  his  pale  sister  in  the  grave,  all  that 
love  has  come  away  from  the  mound,  where  worms  feast, 
and  centres  on  the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm  him ! 
How  often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late  at  night,  and  lay 
your  hand  lightly  upon  the  brow,  where  the  curls  clus 
ter  thick,  rising  and  falling  with  the  throbbing  temples, 
•and  watch,  for  minutes  together,  the  little  lips  half 
parted,  and  listen  —  your  ear  close  to  them  —  if  th« 
Breathing  be  regular  and  sweet ! 

But  the  day  comes  —  the  night  rather  —  when  you 
can  catch  no  breathing. 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away;  compose  yourself;  listen 
again. 

No,  there  is  nothing  ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to    his  brow,  —  damp,   indeed 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.        48 

bat  not  with  healthful  night-sleep  ;  it  is  not  your  hand, — 
no,  do  not  deceive  yourself,  —  it  is  your  loved  boy's  fore 
head  that  is  so  cold ;  and  your  loved  boy  will  never 
speak  to  you  again  —  never  play  again  —  he  is  dead ! 

Oh,  the  tears — the  tears;  what  blessed  things  are 
tears !  Never  fear  now  to  let  them  fall  on  his  fore 
head,  or  his  lip,  lest  you  waken  him !  Clasp  him  — 
clasp  him  harder ;  you  cannot  hurt,  you  cannot  waken 
him  !  Lay  him  down,  gently  or  not,  it  is  the  same ;  he 
is  stiff;  he  is  stark  and  cold. 

But  courage  is  elastic ;  it  is  our  pride.  It  recovers 
itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these  embers  will  get  into 
blaze  again. 

But  courage,  and  patience,  and  faith,  and  hope  have 
their  limit  Blessed  be  the  man  who  escapes  such  trial 
as  will  determine  limit ! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near ;  for  how  can  trial 
take  hold  where  there  is  nothing  by  which  to  try  ? 

A  funeral  ?  You  reason  with  philosophy.  A  grave 
yard  ?  You  read  Hervey,  and  muse  upon  the  wall.  A 
friend  dies  ?  You  sigh,  you  pat  your  dog ;  it  is  over. 
Losses  ?  You  retrench  ;  you  light  your  pipe  ;  it  is  for 
gotten.  Calumny?  You  laugh — you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to  you  in  love 
ind  sorrow  —  what  then  ? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and  coolly  blow  the 
dust  from  the  leaf-tops  ?  Can  you  crimp  vour  lip  witl 


44  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Voltaire?  Can  you  smoke  idly,  your  feet  dangling 
with  the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all  waving  fancies  upon  a 
churchyard  wall,  —  a  wall  that  borders  the  grave  of 
your  boy  ? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  stinging  Martial 
into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat  your  dog,  and  seeing  him 
wakeful  and  kind,  say  "  It  is  enough  "  ?  Can  you  sneer 
at  calumny,  and  sit  by  your  fire  dozing  ? 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who  escapes  such 
trial  as  will  measure  the  limit  of  patience  and  the  limit 
of  courage ! 

But  the  trial  comes :  colder  and  colder  were  grow 
ing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods,  is  fading. 
Not  beauty  fading ;  that,  now  that  your  heart  is  wrapped 
in  her  being,  would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning  apprehension, 
and  she  tries  hard  to  make  that  step  of  hers  elastic. 

Your  tiials  and  your  loves  together  have  centred 
your  affections.  They  are  not  now  as  when  you  were 

lone  man,  widespread  and  superficial.  They  have 
caught  from  domestic  attachments  a  finer  tone  and 
touch.  They  cannot  shoot  out  tendrils  into  barren 
world-soil,  and  suck  up  thence  strengthening  nutriment 
They  haire  grown  under  the  forcing-glass  of  home-roof 
fhey  w:Jl  not  now  bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if  a  heart- 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.       46 

bond  was  linking  you  —  as  if  a  community  of  feelinp 
lay  between.  There  is  a  heart-bond  that  absorbs  all 
others ;  there  is  a  community  that  monopolizes  your 
feeling.  When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  before  it  had 
grown  upon  and  closed  around  particular  objects,  it 
could  take  strength  and  cheer  from  a  hundred  connec 
tions  that  now  seem  colder  than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects,  alas  for  you  !  are 
failing. 

What  anxiety  pursues  you !  How  you  struggle  to 
fancy  there  is  no  danger ;  how  she  struggles  to  per 
suade  you  there  is  no  danger ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear  —  the  toil  and  turmoil 
of  the  city  !  It  was  music  when  you  were  alone  ;  it  was 
pleasant  even,  when  from  the  din  you  were  elaborating 
comforts  for  the  cherished  objects, —  when  you  had  such 
sweet  escape  as  evening  drew  on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world  careless  while 
you  are  steeped  in  care.  They  hustle  you  in  the  street ; 
they  smile  at  you  across  the  table  ;  they  bow  carelessly 
over  the  way  ;  they  do  not  know  what  canker  is  at  youi 
heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the  dead  boy's 
funeral.  He  knows  your  grief;  he  is  respectful.  Yot 
bless  him  in  your  soul.  You  wish  the  laughing  street- 
goers  were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the   physician  as  he  leaves  you? 


46  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

house:  is  he  wise?  you  ask  yourself;  is  he  prudent?  \& 
he  the  best  ?  Did  he  neN'er  fail ;  is  he  never  forgetful  ? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours  —  is  it  no  thin 
ner,  no  whiter  than  yesterday  ?  Sunny  days  come  when 
he  revives  ;  color  comes  back  ;  she  breathes  freer ;  she 
picks  flowers  ;  she  meets  you  with  a  smile:  hope  Jivefl 
again. 

But  the  next  day, of  storm  she  is  fallen.  She  cannot 
talk  even ;  she  presses  your  hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before  your  time. 
What  matter  for  clients ;  who  is  to  reap  the  rewards  ? 
What  matter  for  fame  ;  whose  eye  will  it  brighten  ? 
What  matter  for  riches;  whose  is  the  inheritance? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows  ;  she  is  looking 
over  a  little  picture-book  bethumbed  by  the  dear  boy 
she  has  lost.  She  hides  it  in  her  chair ;  she  has  pity 
on  you. 

Another  day  of  revival,  when  the  spring  sun 

shines,  and  flowers  open  out-of-doors ;  she  leans  on  your 
arm,  and  strolls  into  the  garden  where  the  first  birds 
are  singing.  Listen  to  them  with  her ;  what  memories 
are  in  bird-songs !  You  need  not  shudder  at  her  tears; 
they  are  tears  of  Thanksgiving.  Press  the  hand  that 
lies  light  upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too,  thank  God, 
nrhile  yet  you  may ! 

You  are  early  home,  mid-afternoon.  Your  step  is  not 
ight ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION.        43 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her  breathing 

»ng  and  interrupted. 
She  hears  you  ;  her  eye  opens ;  you  put  your  hand 

in  hers ;  yours  trembles  ;  hers  does  not.    Her  lips  move  • 

it  is  your  name. 

"  Be  strong,"  she  says ;  "  God  will  help  you." 

She  presses  harder  your  hand  :  "Adieu !  " 

A  long  breath,  —  another ;  you  are  alone  again.     No 

tears  now ;  poor  man  !     You  cannot  find  them ! 

Again  home  early.  There  is  a  smell  of  varnish 

in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there  ;  they  have  clothed  the 
body  in  decent  grave-clothes,  and  the  undertaker  is 
screwing  down  the  lid,  slipping  round  on  tiptoe.  Does 
he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the  inscription 
upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with  his  coat-cuff.  You  look 
him  straight  in  the  eye ;  you  motion  to  the  door  ;  you 
dare  not  speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat,  and  glides  out  stealthful  as  a  cat 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all.  It  is  a  nice 
coffin,  a  very  nice  coffin.  Pass  your  hand  over  it ;  ho* 
smooth ! 

Some  sprigs  of  mignonette  are  lying  carelessly  hi  a 
little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She  loved  mignonette, 

It  is  a  good  stanch  table  the  coffin  rests  OD;  it  !« 
wwr  table  ;  you  are  a  housekeeper,  a  man  of  family 


18  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Aye,  of  family  !  keep  down  outcry,  or  the  nurse  will 
be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched  features ;  is  this  :J] 
that  is  left  of  her  ?  And  where  is  your  heart  now  ? 
No,  don't  thrust  your  nails  into  your  hands,  nor  mangle 
your  lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth  together.  If  you  could 
only  weep ! 

Another  day.      The  coffin  is  gone  out.     The 

stupid  mourners  have  wept  —  what  idle  tears  !     She 
with  your  crushed  heart,  has  gone  out. 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your  home  now  ? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  housekeeper  has 
made  comfortable  with  clean  hearth  and  blaze  of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair ;  there  is  another  velvet-cush 
ioned  one,  over  against  yours,  empty.  You  press  your 
fingers  on  your  eyeballs,  as  if  you  would  press  out 
something  that  hurt  the  brain  ;  but  you  cannot.  Your 
head  leans  upon  your  hand  ;  your  eye  rests  upon  the 
flashing  blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was  sick,  —  softh 
lest  the  prim  housekeeper  come  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her  chair ;  they  have 
hung  new  curtains  over  the  bed.  They  have  removed 
from  the  stand  its  phials,  and  silver  bell ;  they  have  put 
a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their  place  ;  the  perfume  will 
Dot  offend  the  sick  sense  now.  They  have  half  opened 
the  window,  that  the  room  so  long  closed  may  have  air 
It  will  not  be  too  cold. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.       49 

She  is  not  there. 

Oh  God !  thou  who  dost  temper  the  wind  to  the 

shorn  lamb,  be  kind  ! 

The  embers  were  dark  ;  I  stirred  them ;  there  was  no 
sign  of  life.  My  dog  was  asleep.  The  clock  in  rny 
tenant's  chamber  had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes ;  how  they  came 
there  I  know  not.  I  half  ejaculated  a  prayer  of  thanks 
that  such  desolation  had  not  yet  come  nigh  me,  and  a 
prayer  of  hope  that  it  might  never  come. 

In  a  half  hour  more  I  was  sleeping  soundly.     Mj 
-cverie  was  ended. 
8 


SECOND   REVERIE. 


SEA-GOAL  AND  ANTHRACITE 


BY  A    CITY  GRATE. 


1  ) LESS ED  b(i  letters!  —  they  are  the  monitors,  they 
-*-*  are  also  the  comforters,  and  they  are  the  only  true 
heart-talkers !  Your  speech,  and  their  speeches,  are 
conventional ;  they  are  moulded  by  circumstance  ;  they 
are  suggested  by  the  observation,  remark,  and  influence 
of  the  parties  to  whom  the  speaking  is  addressed,  or  by 
whom  it  may  be  overheard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half  through  its 
utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a  smile,  or  a  sneer.  It  is 
not  individual  :  it  is  not  integral :  it  is  social  and 
mixed,  —  half  of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It  bends,  it 
sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the 
talk  of  others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  Letters.  There  you  are,  wit! 
only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white,  virgin  paper 
Your  soul  is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and  saying  its 
own  sayings :  there  are  no  sneers  to  modify  its  utter 
ance,  —  no  scowl  to  scare ;  nothing  is  present  but  you 
ind  your  thought. 


64  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Utter  it  then  freely ;  write  it  down  ;  stamp  it ;  burn 
ft  in  the  ink  !  —  There  it  is,  a  true  soul-print ! 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a  letter  1 
I4  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the  world.  Do  you  say, 
it  is  studied,  made  up,  acted,  rehearsed,  contrived,  ar 
tistic? 

Let  me  see  it  then ;  let  me  run  it  over  ;  tell  me  age, 
sex.  circumstance,  and  I  will  tell  you  if  it  be  studied  or 
real,  — if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang  put  into  words,  or 
heart -talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  packet,  not  very  large,  tied  up  with 
narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  frequent  hand 
ling,  which  far  into  some  winter's  night  I  take  down 
from  its  nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie,  and  open,  and 
run  over,  with  such  sorrow  and  such  joy,  such  tears 
and  such  smiles,  as  I  am  sure  make  me  for  weeks  aftei 
a  kinder  and  holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  packet,  letters  in  the  familiar 
hand  of  a  mother  ;  —  what  gentle  admonition  ;  what 
tender  affection  !  God  have  mercy  on  him  who  out 
lives  the  tears  that  such  admonitions  and  such  affection 
call  up  to  the  eye  !  There  are  others  in  the  budget,  in 
the  delicate  and  unformed  hand  of  a  loved  and  lost  sis 
ter,  —  written  when  she  and  you  were  full  of  glee,  and 
the  best  mirth  of  youthfulness  ;  does  it  harm  you  to 
recall  that  mirthfulness  ?  or  to  trace  again,  for  the  hun 
dredth  time,  that  scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom, 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE.  66 

frith  its  t's  so  carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic  fs  so 
carefully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand  of  a  little 
brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of  letters.  I 
almost  need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon ;  the  old  one  is 
getting  too  short.  Not  a  few  of  these  new  and  cher 
ished  letters  a  former  Reverie  *  has  brought  to  me  ;  not 
letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well  done,  artfully 
executed,  prettily  imagined ;  no  such  thing :  but  let 
ters  of  sympathy  —  of  sympathy  which  means  sympa 
thy  —  the  TTcuB-rj^i  and  the  o-w. 

It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to  copy  them ; 
I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they, 
the  kind  writers,  have  seen  a  heart  in  the  Reverie,  — 
have  felt  that  it  was  real,  true.  They  know  it ;  a  secret 
influence  has  told  it.  What  matters  it,  pray,  if  literally 
there  was  no  wife,  and  no  dead  child,  and  no  coffin,  in 
the  house  ?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling  ;  and  heart,  heart  ? 
Are  not  these  fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing 
tears  to  my  eyes,  bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living  as 
anything  human  can  be  living  ?  What  if  they  have  no 
material  type  —  no  objective  form  ?  All  that  is  crude 
—  a  mere  reduction  of  ideality  to  sense,  —  a  transfor 
mation  of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthy,  —  a  levelling  of 
soul  to  matter. 

*  The  first  Reverie  —  Smoke,  Flame,  and  Ashes  —  was  published 
months  previous  to  this,  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger. 


66  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion  ?  la 
anything  about  us  more  earnest  than  that  same  thought 
and  passion  ?  Is  there  anything  more  real,  —  more 
characteristic  of  that  great  and  dim  destiny  to  which  we 
are  born,  and  which  may  be  written  down  in  that  terri 
ble  word  —  Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will,  then,  sneer  at  what  in  their  wis- 
lom  they  call  untruth,  —  at  what  is  false,  because  it  has 
no  material  presence :  this  does  not  create  falsity ; 
would  to  Heaven  that  it  did  ! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth,  super 
added  to  Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sympathize  the 
more  ?  No !  a  thousand  times,  no ;  the  heart  that 
has  no  sympathy  with  thoughts  and  feelings  that  scorch 
the  soul,  is  dead  also  —  whatever  its  mocking  tears  and 
gestures  may  say  —  to  a  coffin  or  a  grave ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to  these  cher 
ished  letters. 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she  says,  shed  a 
tear  —  not  one,  but  many  —  over  the  dead  boy's  cold 
ness.  And  another,  who  has  not  lost,  but  who  trembles 
lest  she  lose,  has  found  the  words  failing  as  she  read, 
»nd  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist  spreading  over  the  page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family  ties  that 
make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nervously  to  careful 
reading,  until  the  husband  is  called  home,  and  the  coffin 
w  in  the  house.  "  Stop !  "  she  says  ;  and  a  gush  of  tears 
the  rest. 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE.  67 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say,  "  It  was  artfully  done."  A 
jurse  on  him  !  it  was  not  art :  it  was  nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind,  has  seen 
something  in  the  love-picture  —  albeit  so  weak  —  ol 
truth  ;  and  has  kindly  believed  that  it  must  be  earnest 
Aye,  indeed  is  it,  fair  and  generous  one,  earnest  as  life 
and  hope !  Who,  indeed,  with  a  heart  at  all,  that  has 
not  yet  slipped  away  irreparably  and  forever  from  the 
shores  of  youth,  —  from  that  fairy  land  which  young 
enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which  bright  dreams  hover, 
—  but  knows  it  to  be  real  ?  And  so  such  things  will 
be  real  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and  Death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book  in  tears. 

—  God  bless  them  all !  How  far  better  this  than 
the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  or  the  criti 
cally  contrived  approval  of  colder  friends  ! 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters  carefully,  to  be  read 
K'hen  the  heart  is  faint  and  sick  of  all  that  there  is 
unreal  and  selfish  in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them  to 
gether  with  a  new  and  longer  bit  of  ribbon  ;  not  by  a 
love-knot,  that  is  too  hard  ;  but  by  an  easy  slipping  knot, 
that  so  I  may  get  at  them  the  better.  And  now  they 
are  all  together,  a  snug  packet,  and  we  will  label  them, 
not  sentimentally  (I  pity  tne  one  who  thinks  it!)  but 
sarucstly,  and  in  the  best  meaning  of  the  term, — 
SOUVENIRS  no  Cffiun. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Reverie,  which  has  added  to  suck 
ft  treasure  !  3  * 


C>5  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

—  And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields,  the  trees, 
the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me,  and  yet  they  are  verj 
present.  A  letter  from  my  tenant —  how  different  from 
those  other  letters !  —  lies  upon  my  table,  telling  me 
what  fields  he  has  broken  up  for  the  autumn  grain,  and 
how  many  beeves  he  is  fattening,  and  how  the  potatoes 
are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From  my  window 
I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded  house-tops,  —  moralizing 
often  upon  the  scene,  but  in  a  strain  too  long  and  som 
bre  to  be  set  down  here.  In  place  of  the  wide  country 
chimney,  with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is  a  snug  grate,  where 
the  maid  makes  me  a  fire  in  the  morning,  and  rekindles 
it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair  —  a  cosily 
stuffed  office-chair  —  by  five  or  six  o'clock  of  the  even 
ing.  The  fire  has  been  newly  made,  perhaps  an  hour 
before :  first,  the  maid  drops  a  withe  of  paper  in  the 
bottom  of  the  grate,  then  a  stick  or  two  of  pine-wood, 
and  after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool  coal ;  so  that  by  the 
time  I  am  seated  for  the  evening,  the  sea-coal  is  fairly 
In  a  blaze. 

When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the  second  ba 
of  the  grate,  the  maid  replenishes  it  with  a  hod  of  A.n 
thracite  ;  and  I  sit  musing  and  reading,  while  the  new 
coal  warms  and  kindles ;  not  leaving  my  pls.ee,  until  if 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE.  59 

was  sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate,  which  marks  my 
bedtime. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the  hours,  which 
belong  to  you,  and  your  life,  and  not  to  the  world.  A 
watch  is  no  more  the  measure  of  your  time  than  of 
the  time  of  your  neighbors  ;  a  church-clock  is  as  pub 
lic  and  vulgar  as  a  church-warden.  I  would  as  soon 
think  of  hiring  the  parish  sexton  to  make  my  bed,  as 
to  regulate  my  time  by  the  parish  clock. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your  carpet,  or  a 
streak  of  light  on  a  slated  roof  yonder,  or  the  burning 
of  your  fire,  are  pleasant  time-keepers,  —  full  of  pres 
ence,  full  of  companionship,  and  full  of  the  warning  — 
time  is  passing ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  measured  my 
reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by  the  burning  of  a 
taper;  and  I  have  scratched  upon  the  handle  to  the 
little  bronze  taper-holder  that  meaning  passage  of  the 
New  Testament, — Nv£  yap  cpxerai, — the  night  cometh  ! 

But  T  must  get  upon  my  Reverie.  It  was  a  drizzly 
evening ;  I  had  worked  hard  during  the  day,  and  had 
drawn  my  boots,  thrust  my  feet  into  slippers,  thrown 
on  a  Turkish  loose  dress  and  Greek  cap,  souvenirs  to 
me  of  other  times  and  other  places,  —  and  sat  watch 
ing  the  lively,  uncertain  yellow  play  of  the  bituminous 
flame. 


L 

Sea-Coal. 

I  T  is  like  a  flirt,  mused  I :  lively,  uncertain,  bright. 
•*-  colored,  waving  here  and  there,  melting  the  coal 
into  black,  shapeless  mass ;  making  foul,  sooty  smoke, 
and  pasty,  trashy  residuum !  Yet  withal,  pleasantly 
sparkling,  dancing,  prettily  waving,  and  leaping  Uke  a 
roebuck  from  point  to  point. 

How  like  a  flirt !  And  yet  is  not  this  tossing  caprice 
of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken  my  sea-coal  flame,  a  na 
tive  play  of  life,  and  belonging  by  nature  to  the  play 
time  of  life  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  essential  fire-kindling 
to  the  weightier  and  truer  passions,  even  as  Jenny 
puts  the  soft  coal  first,  the  better  to  kindle  the  anthra 
cite?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  necessary  consumption  of 
young  vapors,  which  float  in  the  soul,  and  which  is  left 
thereafter  the  purer  ?  Is  there  not  a  stage  somewhere 
in  every  man's  youth  for  just  such  waving,  idle  heart- 
blaze,  which  means  nothing,  yet  which  must  be  got 
over? 

Lamartine  says  somewhere,  very  prettily,  that  there 
\s  more  of  quick-running  sap  and  floating  shade  in  v 


SEA-COAL.  61 

young  tree,  but  more  of  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  sturdy 
oak :  — '  II  y  a  plus  de  skve  folle  et  d?  ombre  floltante  dans 
les  jeunes  plants  de  la  foret  ;  il  y  a  plus  de  feu  dans  la 
vieux  c&ur  du  chene" 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of  expression 
dressing  up  with  his  poetry,  —  making  a  good  con 
science  against  the  ghost  of  some  accusing  Graziella,  — 
or  is  there  truth  in  the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether  widower 
or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such  sentiment  into  words  :  it 
feeds  his  wasted  heart  with  hope  ;  it  renews  the  exul 
tation  of  youth  by  the  pleasantest  of  equivocation,  and 
the  most  charming  of  self-confidence.  But,  after  all, 
is  it  not  true  ?  Is  not  the  heart  like  new  blossoming 
field-plants,  whose  first  flowers  are  half-formed,  one 
sided  perhaps,  but  by-and-by,  in  maturity  of  season, 
putting  out  wholesome,  well-formed  blossoms,  that  will 
hold  their  leaves  long  and  bravely  ? 

Bulwer,  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons,  has  counted  first 
heart-flights  mere  fancy  passages, —  a  dalliance  with  the 
breezes  of  love, —  which  pass,  and  leave  healthful  heart« 
appetite.  Half  the  reading  world  has  read  the  story 
of  Trevanion  and  Pisistratus.  But  Bulwer  is  —  past 
his  heart-life  is  used  up  —  epuise.  Such  a  man  can  very 
•afely  rant  about  the  cool  judgment  of  after-years. 

Where  does  Shakspeare  put  the  unripe  heart-age? 
Ml  of  it  before  the  ambition,  that  alone  makes  the 


52  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

hero-soul.  The  Shakspeare  man  "sighs  like  a  fur 
aace,"  before  he  stretches  his  arm  to  achieve  the  "  bau 
ble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakspeare  has  meted  a  soul-love,  mature  and 
ripe,  without  any  young  furnace-sighs,  to  Desdemona 
and  Othello.  Cordelia,  the  sweetest  of  his  play-crea 
tions,  loves  without  any  of  the  mawkish  matter  which 
makes  the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet.  And  Florizel,  in 
the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  says  to  Perdita,  in  the  true  spirit 
»f  a  most  sound  heart,  — 

"  My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith." 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache  ?  No  sea-coal 
blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant,  enduring,  pervading :  a 
pair  of  hearts  full  of  esteem  and  best  love,  —  good, 
honest,  and  sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's  presence,  with 
Milton  for  showman.  Shall  we  quote  by  this  sparkling 
blaze,  a  gem  from  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  ?  We  will  hum 
It  to  ourselves,  —  what  Raphael  sings  to  Adam,  —  a 
classic  song :  — 

"  Him,  serve  and  fear! 
Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose;  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee.  thi?  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve !" 


SEA-COAL.  68 

And  again :  — 

"  Love  refines 

The  thoughts  and  heart  enlarges:  hath  his  seat 

In  reason,  and  is  judicious:  is  the  scale 

By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  mayst  ascend !  " 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love,  which  be 
tongs  to  the  flame  of  my  sea-coal  fire,  that  is  now  danc 
ing,  lively  as  a  cricket.  But  on  looking  about  my  gar 
ret-chamber,  I  can  see  nothing  that  resembles  the  arch 
angel  Raphael,  or  "thy  fair  Eve." 

There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the  sea-coal 
flame,  which,  with  the  most  earnest  of  my  musing,  I 
find  it  impossible  to  attach  to  that  idea  of  a  waving, 
sparkling  heart  which  my  fire  suggests.  A  damp  heart 
must  be  a  foul  thing  to  be  sure  !  But  whoever  heard 
jf  one  ? 

Wordsworth,  somewhere  in  the  "  Excursion,"  says  :  — 

14  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! " 

What,  in  the  name  of  Rydal  Mount,  is  a  dry  heart  ? 
A.  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of:  a  bachelor's  heart 
must  be  somewhat  dusty,  as  he  nears  the  sixtieth  sum 
mer  of  his  pilgrimage  ;  and  hung  over  with  cobwebs 
in  which  sit  such  watchful  gray  old  spiders  as  Avarice 
*nd  Selfishness,  forever  on  the  look-out  for  such  bottle 
tjreen  flies  as  Lust. 

tt  I  wilJ  never,"  said  I,  griping  at  the  elbows  of  mj 


64  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

chair,  "  live  a  bachelor  till  sixty :  never,  so  surely  as 
there  is  hope  in  man,  or  charity  in  woman,  or  faith  in 
both !  " 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped  about  in 
playful  coruscations,  even  like  the  flame  of  the  sea- 
coal  :  rising  and  wrapping  round  old  and  tender 
memories,  and  images  that  were  present  to  me,  trying 
to  cling,  and  yet  no  sooner  fastened  than  off;  dancing 
again,  riotous  in  its  exultation,  —  a  succession  of  heart- 
sparkles,  blazing,  and  going  out ! 

—  And  is  there  not,  mused  I,  a  portion  of  this  world 
forever  blazing  in  just  such  lively  sparkles,  waving 
here  and  there  as  the  air-currents  fan  them  ? 

Take,  for  instance,  your  heart  of  sentiment  and  quick 
sensibility,  —  a  weak,  warm-working  heart,  flying  off  in 
tangents  of  unhappy  influence,  unguided  by  prudence, 
and  perhaps  virtue.  There  is  a  paper  by  Mackenzie 
in  the  Mirror  for  April,  1780,  which  sets  this  untoward 
sensibility  in  a  strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more  strong  and 
binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibility  becomes.  Poor 
Mackenzie  himself  must  have  suffered  thus ;  you  can 
not  read  his  books  without  feeling  it ;  your  eye,  in  spit 
Df  you,  runs  over  with  his  sensitive  griefs,  while  you  are 
half  ashamed  of  his  success  at  picture-making.  It  is 
a  terrible  inheritance,  and  one  that  a  strong  man  or 
voman  will  study  to  subdue  ;  it  is  a  vain  sea-coal  spark 


SEA-COAL.  65 

fing,  which  will  count  no  good.  The  world  is  made  of 
much  hard,  flinty  substance,  against  which  your  bettei 
and  holier  thoughts  will  be  striking  fire :  see  to  it  that 
the  sparks  do  not  burn  you  ! 

But  what  a  happy  careless  life  belongs  to  this  Bach 
elorhood,  in  which  you  may  strike  out  boldly  right  and 
eft !  Your  heart  is  not  bound  to  another  which  maj 
be  full  of  only  sickly  vapors  of  feeling ;  nor  is  it  frozen 
to  a  cold  man's  heart  under  a  silk  bodice,  knowing  noth 
ing  of  tenderness  but  the  name,  to  prate  of;  and  nothing 
of  soul-confidence,  but  clumsy  confession.  And  if,  in 
your  careless  out-goings  of  feeling,  you  get  here  only  a 
little  lip  vapidity  in  return,  be  sure  that  you  will  find 
elsewhere  a  true  heart  utterance.  This  last  you  will 
cherish  in  your  inner  soul,  a  nucleus  for  a  new  group 
of  affections ;  and  the  other  will  pass  with  a  whiff  of 
your  cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck,  hurt,  who  is 
the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but  you  only  ?  And  have  you 
not  the  whole  skein  of  your  heart-life  in  your  own 
fingers,  to  wind  or  unwind  in  what  shape  you  please? 
Shake  it,  or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it,  by  the  light  of  your 
fire,  as  you  fancy  best.  He  is  a  weak  man  who  canno 
rwist  and  weave  the  threads  of  his  feeling  —  howevei 
tine,  however  tangled,  however  strained,  or  however 
strong  —  into  the  great  cable  of  Purpose,  by  which  he 
ies  moored  to  his  life  of  Action. 


66  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Reading  is  a  great  and  happy  disentangler  of  all 
those  knotted  snarls  —  those  extravagant  vagaries, 
which  belong  to  a  heart  sparkling  with  sensibility  ;  but 
the  reading  must  be  cautiously  directed.  There  is  old 
placid  Burton,  when  your  soul  is  weak  and  its  diges 
tion  of  life's  humors  is  bad  ;  there  is  Cowper,  when 
your  spirit  runs  into  kindly,  half-sad,  religious  musing 
there  is  Crabbe,  when  you  would  shake  off  vagary,  by  a 
little  handling  of  sharp  actualities.  There  is  Voltaire, 
a  homoeopathic  doctor,  whom  you  can  read  when  you 
want  to  make  a  play  of  life,  and  crack  jokes  at  Nature, 
and  be  witty  with  Destiny;  there  is  Rousseau,  when 
you  want  to  lose  yourself  in  a  mental  dream-land,  and 
be  beguiled  by  the  harmony  of  soul-music  and  soul- 
culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and  be  sturdiest 
among  the  battlers  for  hard  world-success,  and  be  fore 
warned  of  rocks  against  which  you  must  surely  smite,  — 
read  Bolingbroke ;  run  over  the  letters  of  Lyttleton  ; 
read,  and  think  of  what  you  read,  in  the  cracking  lines 
Df  Rochefoucauld.  How  he  sums  us  up  in  his  sting- 
tog  words!  how  he  puts  the  scalpel  between  th< 
erves !  yet  he  never  hurts,  for  he  is  dissecting  dead 
natter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial,  careless  mood,  who  is  bettei 
flian  such  extemporizers  of  feeling  and  nature  —  good 
hearted  fellows  —  as  Sterne  and  Fielding  ? 


SEA-COAL.  67 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and  Isaiah,  to  lift 
ap  one  s  soul  until  it  touches  cloud-land,  and  you  wan 
der  with  their  guidance,  on  swift  feet,  to  the  very  gates 
of  heaven. 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one  struggling  under 
infirmity,  or  with  grief  or  poverty,  is  very  dreadful 
The  soul  Is  too  nicely  and  keenly  hinged  to  be  wrenched 
without  mischief.  How  it  shrinks,  like  a  hurt  child, 
from  all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh,  and  crude !  Alas,  for 
such  a  man  !  he  will  be  buffeted  from  beginning  to 
end  ;  his  life  will  be  a  sea  of  troubles.  The  poor  vic 
tim  of  his  own  quick  spirit,  he  wanders  with  a  great 
shield  of  doubt  hung  before  him,  so  that  none,  not  even 
friends,  can  see  the  goodness  of  such  kindly  qualities 
as  belong  to  him.  Poverty,  if  it  conies  upon  him,  he 
wrestles  with  in  secret,  with  strong,  frenzied  struggles. 
He  wraps  his  scant  clothes  about  him  to  keep  him  from 
the  cold ;  and  eyes  the  world  as  if  every  creature  in  it 
was  breathing  chill  blasts  at  him  from  every  opened 
mouth.  He  threads  the  crowded  ways  of  the  city, 
proud  in  his  griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness,  not  stopping 
to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  "  New  Timon,"  has  painted, 
in  a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like  lines,  this  feeling  in  a 
u  Oman :  — 

"  What  had  been  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 
She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her  throne !  " 

Cold  picture !  yet  the  heart  was  sparkling  under  it, 


88  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

like  my  sea-coal  fire,  —  lifting  and  blazing,  and  lighting 
and  falling,  —  but  with  no  object,  and  only  such  little 
heat  as  begins  and  ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are  chasing  and 
observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue  from  what  the  dull  and 
callous  pass  by  unnoticed  —  because  unknown.  They 
blunder  at  the  great  variety  of  the  world's  opinions 
they  see  tokens  of  belief  where  others  see  none.  That 
delicate  organization  is  a  curse  to  a  man  ;  and  yet,  poor 
fool,  he  does  not  see  where  his  cure  lies ;  he  wonders 
at  his  griefs,  and  has  never  reckoned  with  himself  their 
source.  He  studies  others,  without  studying  himself. 
He  eats  the  leaves  that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the 
root  that  will  cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse  :  with  her,  this  delicate 
susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower,  that  quivers  at  every 
rough  blast  of  heaven ;  her  own  delicacy  wounds  her ; 
her  highest  charm  is  perverted  to  a  curse. 

She  listens  with  fear ;  she  reads  with  trembling  ;  she 

looks  with  dread.     Her  sympathies  give  a  tone,  like  the 

harp  of  ^Eolus,  to  the  slightest  breath.     Her  sensibility 

ights  up,  and  quivers  and  falls,  like  the  flame  of  a  sea- 

>al  fire. 

if  she  loves,  (and  may  not  a  Bachelor  reason  on 
ais  daintiest  of  topics,)  her  love  is  a  gushing,  wavy 
tame,  lit  up  with  hope,  that  has  only  a  little  kindling 
tnatter  to  light  it;  and  this  soon  burns  out.  Yet  in 


SEA-COAL.  69 

teuse  sensibility  will  persuade  her  that  the  flame  stil. 
scorches.  She  will  mistake  the  annoyance  of  affection 
unrequited  for  the  sting  of  a  passion  that  she  fancies 
still  burns.  She  does  not  look  deep  enough  to  see  that 
the  passion  is  gone,  and  the  shocked  sensitiveness  emits 
only  faint,  yellowish  sparkles  in  its  place  ;  her  high 
wrought  organization  makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veri 
table  flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  discretion  are  cold, 
measured  terms,  which  have  no  meaning,  except  as  they 
attach  to  the  actions  of  others.  Of  her  own  acts,  she 
never  predicates  them  ;  feeling  is  much  too  high,  to  al 
low  her  to  submit  to  any  such  obtrusive  guides  of  con 
duct.  She  needs  disappointment  to  teach  her  truth,  — 
to  teach  that  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters,  —  to  teach  that 
all  warmth  does  not  blaze.  But  let  her  beware  how  she 
sinks  under  any  fancied  disappointments :  she  who  sinks 
under  real  disappointment  lacks  philosophy ;  but  she 
who  suiks  under  a  fancied  one  lacks  purpose.  Let  her 
flee  as  the  plague  such  brooding  thoughts  as  she  will 
love  to  cherish  ;  let  her  spurn  dark  fancies  as  the  visit 
ants  of  hell ;  let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze  of  new- 
kindled,  active,  and  world-wide  emotions,  and  so  brighten 
into  steady  and  constant  flame.  Let  her  abjure  sucl 
poets  as  Cowper,  or  Byron,  or  even  Wordsworth  ;  and 

she  must  poetize,  let  her  lay  her  mind  to  such  manlj 
\«rse  as  Pope's,  or  to  such  sound  and  ringing  organr; 
%s  Comus. 


;o 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in  the  poker 
it  started  up  on  the  instant  into  a  hundred  little  angry 
tongues  of  flame. 

—  Just  so,  thought  I,  the  over-sensitive  heart,  once 
cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out  a  score  of  flaming  pas- 
Bions,  darting  here  and  darting  there,  half  smoke,  half 
flame,  —  love  and  hate,  canker  and  joy,  —  wild  in  its 
madness,  not  knowing  whither  its  sparks  are  flying. 
Once  break  roughly  upon  the  affections,  or  even  the 
fancied  affections  of  such  a  soul,  and  you  breed  a  tor 
nado  of  maddened  action,  —  a  whirlwind  of  fire  that 
hisses,  and  sends  out  jets  of  wild,  impulsive  combustion, 
that  make  the  bystanders,  even  those  most  friendly, 
stand  aloof  until  the  storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  the  dashing  flame  of  my  sea- 
coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt!  mused  I  again,  recurring  to 

my  first  thought :  so  lively,  yet  uncertain ;  so  bright, 
yet  so  flickering !  Your  true  flirt  plays  with  sparkles  ; 
her  heart,  much  as  there  is  of  it,  spends  itself  in 
sparkles ;  she  measures  it  to  sparkle,  and  habit  grows 
into  nature,  so  that  anon  it  can  only  sparkle.  How 
Carefully  she  cramps  it,  if  the  flames  show  too  great  a 
heat ;  how  dexterously  she  flings  its  blaze  here  and 
there ;  how  coyly  she  subdues  it ;  how  winningly  she 
ights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpremeditated 


SEA-COAL.  71 

V 

iartings  of  the  soul  at  which  I  have  been  looking ;  sen 
sibility  scorns  heart-curbings  and  heart-teachings  ;  sen 
sibility  inquires  not,  how  much  ?  but  only,  where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul ;  well  mod 
ulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there  is  no  fineness  in  it 
All  its  native  fineness  is  made  coarse  by  coarse  efforti 
of  the  will.  True  feeling  is  a  rustic  vulgarity  the  flirt 
does  not  tolerate ;  she  counts  its  healthiest  and  most 
honest  manifestation  all  sentiment.  Yet  she  will  play 
you  off  a  pretty  string  of  sentiment  which  she  has  gath 
ered  from  the  poets  ;  she  adjusts  it  prettily  as  a  Gobelin 
weaver  adjusts,  the  colors  in  his  tapis.  She  shades  it  off 
delightfully  ;  there  are  no  bold  contrasts,  but  a  most 
artistic  mellow  of  nuances. 

She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it  with  a  laugh, 
such  as  tolled  the  poor  home-bound  Ulysses  to  the  Cir- 
cean  bower.  She  has  a  cast  of  the  head,  apt  and  artful 
as  the  most  dexterous  cast  of  the  best  trout-killing  rod. 
Her  words  sparkle,  and  flow  hurriedly,  and  with  the 
prettiest  doubleness  of  meaning.  Naturalness  she  cop 
ies,  and  she  scorns.  She  accuses  herself  of  a  single 
expression  or  regard,  which  nature  prompts.  She 
prides  herself  on  her  schooling.  She  measures  her  wit 
by  the  triumphs  of  her  art ;  she  chuckles  over  her  own 
falsity  to  herself.  And  if  by  chance  her  soul  —  such 
erm  as  is  left  of  it  —  betrays  her  into  untoward  confi 
dence,  she  condemns  herself,  as  if  she  had  committed 
crime. 


72  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no  depth  of  feel 
ing  to  be  stirred.  The  brook  that  runs  shallow  ovei 
hard,  pebbly  bottom  always  rustles.  She  is  light- 
hearted,  because  her  heart  floats  in  sparkles,  like  my 
sea-coal  fire.  She  counts  on  marriage,  not  as  the  great 
absorbent  of  a  heart's-love,  and  life,  but  as  a  happy, 
feasible,  and  orderly  conventionality,  to  be  played  with, 
and  kept  at  distance,  and  finally  to  be  accepted  as  a 
cover  for  the  faint  and  tawdry  sparkles  of  an  old  and 
cherished  heartlessness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  because  she  has 
no  appreciation  of  any  loss ;  she  will  not  chafe  at  indif 
ference,  because  it  is  her  art ;  she  will  not  be  worried 
with  jealousies,  because  she  is  ignorant  of  love.  With 
no  conception  of  the  soul  in  its  strength  and  fulness, 
she  sees  no  lack  of  its  demands.  A  thrill  she  does  not 
know ;  a  passion  she  cannot  imagine ;  joy  is  a  name ; 
grief  is  another ;  and  Life,  with  its  crowding  scenes  of 
love  and  bitterness,  is  a  play  upon  the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says,  in  some 
thing  like  the  same  connection  :  —  "  Les  hiboux  ne  con- 
naissent  pas  le  chemin  par  ou  les  aigles  vont  au  soleil" 

Poor  Ned  !  mused  I,  looking  at  the  play  of  the 

6re,  was  a  victim  and  a  conqueror.  He  was  a  man  of  a 
full,  strong  nature, —  not  a  little  impulsive,—  with  action 
bo  full  of  earnestness  for  most  of  men  to  see  its  drift 
He  had  known  little  of  what  is  called  the  world  :  he 


SEA-COAL.  78 

wras  fresh  in  feeling  and  high  of  hope ;  he  had  beec 
encircled  always  by  friends  who  loved  him,  and  who, 
maybe,  flattered  him.  Scarce  had  he  entered  upon 
the  tangled  life  of  the  city,  before  he  met  with  a  spark 
ling  face  and  an  airy  step,  that  stirred  something  in 
poor  Ned  that  he  had  never  felt  before.  With  him,  to 
feel  was  to  act.  He  was  not  one  to  be  despised ;  for 
notwithstanding  he  wore  a  country  air,  and  the  awk 
wardness  of  a  man  who  has  yet  the  bienseance  of  social 
life  before  him,  he  had  the  soul,  the  courage,  and  the 
talent  of  a  strong  man.  Little  gifted  in  the  knowledge 
of  face-play,  he  easily  mistook  those  coy  manoeuvres  of 
a  sparkling  heart  for  something  kindred  to  his  own  true 
emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man  who  carried 
a  mind  in  his  brain,  and  flattered  poor  Ned  almost  into 
servility.  Ned  had  no  friends  to  counsel  him  ;  or  if  he 
had  them,  his  impulses  would  have  blinded  him.  Never 
was  dodger  more  artful  at  the  Olympic  Games  than  the 
Peggy  of  Ned's  heart-affection.  He  was  charmed,  be 
guiled,  entranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it  off  with  the 
prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only  bewildered  him  the 
more.  A  charming  creature  to  be  sure  ;  coy  as  a  dove 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day  —  he  told  me 
of  it  with  the  blood  mounting  to  his  temples,  and  his 
aye  shooting  flame  —  he  suffered  his  feelings  to  nn  out 


74  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

in  passionate  avowal.  —  entreaty,  —  everything.  Sb« 
gave  a  pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and  manifested  —  such 
pretty  surprise ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of  passion  ;  and 
lo !  there  was  nothing  but  the  shifting  sparkle  of  a  sea- 
coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence,  for  I  was  his  sen 
for  by  a  year.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "  diet  your 
self:  you  can  find  greens  at  the  up-town  market;  eat 
a  little  fish  with  your  dinner :  abstain  from  heating 
drinks  ;  don't  put  too  much  butter  to  your  cauliflower  ; 
read  one  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermons,  and  translate  all 
the  quotations  at  sight ;  run  carefully  over  that  exqui 
site  picture  of  Geo.  Danclin  in  your  Moliere,  and  my 
word  for  it,  in  a  week  you  will  be  a  sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry-   to  renlv ;  but    eighteen    months 

O         *•'  I  K  O 

thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three-sheeted  letter,  with  a 
dove  upon  the  seal,  telling  me  that  he  was  as  happy  as 
a  king.  He  said  he  had  married  a  good-hearted,  domes 
tic,  loving  wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a  June-day ;  and 
that  their  baby,  not  three  months  old,  was  as  bright  as 
a  spot  of  June-day  sunshine  on  the  grass. 

—  What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife,  mused  I. 
inch  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must  in  the  end  make;  —  the 
prostitute  of  fashion  ;  the  bauble  of  fifty  hearts  idle  as 
hers ;  the  shifting  makepeace  of  a  stage-scene ;  the 
ictress,  now  in  peasant,  and  now  in  princely  petticoats 


SEA-COAL.  75 

How  it  would  cheer  an  honest  soul  to  call  her  —  his . 
WTiat  a  culmination  of  his  heart-life ;  what  a  rick 
dream-lar  d  to  be  realized ! 

Bah !  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the  clotted 

mass  of  fading  coal ;  just  such,  and  so  worthless,  is  the 
used  heart  of  a  city  flirt ;  just  so  the  incessant  sparkle 
of  her  life,  and  frittering  passions,  fuses  all  that  is 
sound  and  combustible  into  black,  sooty,  shapeless 
residuum. 

When  I  marry  a  flirt,  I  will  buy  second-hand  clothes 
of  the  Jews. 

—  Still,  mused  I,  as  the  flame  danced  again,  there  is 
a  distinction  between  coquetry  and  flirtation. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the  sparkle  of  a 
harmless  and  pretty  vanity  than  of  calculation.  It  is 
the  play  of  humors  in  the  blood,  and  not  the  play  of 
purpose  at  the  heart.  It  will  flicker  around  a  true  sou. 
like  the  blaze  around  an  omelette  au  rhum,  leaving  th« 
kernel  sounder  and  warmer. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teasings,  makes  the 
spice  to  your  dinner  —  the  mulled  wine  to  your  supper. 
It  will  drive  you  to  desperation,  only  to  bring  you  back 
hotter  to  the  fray.  Who  would  boast  a  victory  that 
cost  no  strategy,  and  no  careful  disposition  of  the  forces  ; 
Who  would  bulletin  such  success  as  my  Uncle  Toby's, 
'n  a  back-garden,  with  only  the  Corporal  Trim  fo* 
assailant?  But  let  a  man  be  very  sure  that  the  city  is 
worth  the  siege ! 


f6  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite ;  flirtation  depraves  it 
Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards  the  rose,  —  easily 
trimmed  off  when  once  plucked.  Flirtation  is  like  the 
slime  on  water-plants,  making  them  hard  to  handle, 
and  when  caught,  only  to  be  cherished  in  slimy  waters. 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flickering  blaze 
I  see  in  my  reverie  a  bright  one  dancing  before  me 
with  sparkling,  coquettish  smile,  teasing  me  with  the 
prettiest  graces  in  the  world ;  and  I  grow  maddened 
between  hope  and  fear,  and  still  watch  with  my  whole 
soul  in  my  eyes ;  and  see  her  features  by-and-by  relax 
to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensibility  comes  stealing  over  her 
spirit ;  and  then  to  a  kindly,  feeling  regard :  presently 
she  approaches,  —  a  coy  and  doubtful  approach,  —  and 
throws  back  the  ringlets  that  lie  over  her  cheek,  and 
lays  her  hand  —  a  little  bit  of  white  hand  —  timidly 
upon  my  strong  fingers,  and  turns  her  head  daintily 
to  one  side,  and  looks  up  in  my  eyes  as  they  rest  on 
the  playing  blaze  ;  and  my  fingers  close  fast  and  pas 
sionately  over  that  little  hand,  like  a  swift  night-cloud 
shrouding  the  pale  tips  of  Dian  ;  and  my  eyes  draw 
nearer  and  nearer  to  those  blue,  laughing,  pitying,  teas 
ing  eyes,  and  my  arm  clasps  round  that  shadowy  form, 
—  and  my  lips  feel  a  warm  breath  —  growing  warmer 
ind  warmer 

Just  here  the  maid  conies  in,  and  throws  upon  the 
fire  a  panful  of  Anthracite,  and  my  sparkling  sea-coaj 
*everie  is  ended. 


n. 

Anthracite. 

f~T  does  not  burn  freely,  so   I   put  on   the   blower 

-*-  Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier  de  Maistre  *  would 
have  made,  I  dare  say,  a  pretty  epilogue  about  a  sheet- 
iron  blower  ;  but  I  cannot. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  belonged  to  the 
lingering  bituminous  flame,  but  with  my  eyes  on  that 
dark  blower  —  how  can  I? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which  drops  down 
before  our  brightest  dreams.  How  often  the  phantoms 
of  joy  regale  us.  and  dance  before  us,  golden-winged, 
angel-faced,  heart-warming,  and  make  an  Elysium  in 
which  the  dreaming  soul  bathes,  and  feels  translated 
to  another  existence ;  and  then  —  sudden  as  night,  or 
a  cloud  —  a  word,  a  step,  a  thought,  a  memory  will 
rhase  them  away,  like  scared  deer  vanishing  over  a 
gray  horizon  of  moor-land  ! 

J  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or  a  sin  to 

*  Voyage  attt&ur  de  Ma  Chambre. 


78  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

create  these  phantoms  that  we  love,  and  to  group  thtna 
into  a  paradise  —  soul-created.  But  if  it  is  a  sin,  it  is 
a  sweet  and  enchanting  sin  ;  and  if  it  is  a  weakness,  it 
is  a  strong  and  stirring  weakness.  If  this  heart  is  sick 
of  the  falsities  that  meet  it  at  every  hand,  and  is  eager 
to  spend  that  power  which  nature  has  ribbed  it  with 
on  some  object  worthy  of  its  fulness  and  depth,  shall 
t  not  feel  a  rich  relief,  nay  more,  an  exercise  in  keep 
ing  with  its  end,  if  it  flow  out,  strong  as  a  tempest,  wild 
as  a  rushing  river,  upon  those,  ideal  creations  which 
imagination  invents,  and  which  are  tempered  by  our 
best  sense  of  beauty,  purity,  and  grace  ? 

Useless,  do  you  say  ?  Aye,  it  is  as  useless  as 

the  pleasure  of  looking  hour  upon  hour  over  bright 
landscapes  •  :t  is  as  useless  as  the  rapt  enjoyment  of 
listening,  with  heart  full  and  eyes  brimming,  to  such 
music  as  the  Miserere  at  Rome ;  it  is  as  useless  as  the 
ecstasy  of  kindling  your  soul  into  fervor  and  love  and 
madness,  over  pages  that  reek  with  genius. 

There  are  indeed  base-moulded  souls  who  know  noth 
ing  of  this  :  they  laugh  ;  they  sneer  ;  they  even  affect  to 
pity.  Just  so  the  Huns  under  the  avenging  Attila,  who 
had  been  used  to  foul  cookery  and  steaks  stewed  under 
their  saddles,  laughed  brutally  at  the  spiced  banquets 
jf  an  Apicius ! 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin ;  or  if  it  be, 

•t  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so  earnest,  that  it  can 


ANTHRACITE.  79 

cry  to  Heaven  cheerily,  and  sure  of  a  gracious  hearing, 
—pecaavi  —  misericorde  ! 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow,  throwing  a 
tranquil,  steady  light  to  the  farthest  corner  of  my  gar 
ret  How  unlike  it  is  t3  the  flashing  play  of  the  sea- 
coal  !  —  unlike  as  an  unsteady,  uncertain -working  heart 
to  the  true  and  earnest  constancy  of  one  cheerful  and 
right 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart ;  not  bent 
on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp  with  sensibility,  not 
throwing  out  coquettish  jets  of  flame,  not  wavering, 
and  meaningless  with  pretended  warmth,  but  open, 
glowing,  and  strong.  Its  dark  shades  and  angles  it 
may  have ;  for  what  is  a  soul  worth  that  does  not  take 
a  slaty  tinge  from  those  griefs  that  chill  the  blood  ? 
Yet  still  the  fire  is  gleaming ;  you  see  it  in  the  crev- 
\ces  ;  and  anon  it  will  give  radiance  to  the  whole  mass. 

It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire;  and  I  draw  up  a 

screen  painted  over  with  rough  but  graceful  figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of  modesty,  (not 
if  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy,  iron,  repulsive  screen.) 
.  t  will  not  allow  itself  to  be  looked  on  too  near,  —  it 
might  scorch ;  but  through  the  veil  you  feel  the  warmth 
ind  through  the  pretty  figures  that  modesty  will  robe 
itself  in,  you  can  see  all  the  while  the  golden  outlines, 
And  by  that  token  you  know  that  it  is  glowing  and 
burning  with  a  pure  and  steady  flame. 


BO  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

"With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  naturally,  —  a  holj 
and  heated  fusion ;  they  work  together  like  twins-born. 
With  such  a  heart,  as  Raphael  says  to  Adam, 

"  Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious." 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from  your  clay-cold, 
iiikewarm,  half-hearted  soul ;  —  considerate,  because  ig 
norant  ;  judicious,  because  possessed  of  no  latent  fires 
that  need  a  curb ;  prudish,  because  with  no  warm  blood 
to  tempt.  This  sort  of  soul  may  pass  scatheless  through 
the  fiery  furnace  of  life  ;  strong  only  in  its  weakness ; 
pure,  because  of  its  failings ;  and  good  only  by  nega 
tion.  It  may  triumph  over  love,  and  sin,  and  death ; 
but  it  will  be  a  triumph  of  the  beast,  which  has  neither 
passions  to  subdue,  or  energy  to  attack,  or  hope  to 
quench. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  earnest  heart, 
glowing  like  my  anthracite  coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now ;  —  the  eye  is  deep,  and 
reaches  back  to  the  spirit ;  it  is  not  the  trading  ey«, 
weighing  your  purse  ;  it  is  not  the  worldly  eye,  weigh 
ing  position ;  it  is  not  the  beastly  eye,  weighing  you 
appearance  ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye,  weighing  your  soul ! 

It  is  full  of  deep,  tender,  and  earnest  feeling.  It 
fe  an  eye  which,  looked  on  once,  you  long  to  look  OB 
igain  it  is  an  eye  which  will  haunt  your  dreams,  —  an 


ANTHRACITE.  81 

eye  which  will  give  a  color,  in  spite  of  you,  to  all  youi 
reveries.  It  is  an  eye  which  lies  before  you  in  your 
future,  like  a  star  in  the  mariner's  heaven ;  by  it,  un 
consciously,  and  from  force  of  deep  soul-habit,  you  take 
all  your  observations.  It  is  meek  and  quiet ;  but  it  is 
full,  as  a  spring  that  gushes  in  flood  ;  an  Aphrodite  and 
a  Mercury  —  a  Vaucluse  and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel  face  :  no  matter  for  curious  lines 

O 

of  beauty  ;  no  matter  for  popular  talk  of  prettiness  ;  no 
matter  for  its  angles  or  its  proportions  ;  no  matter  for 
its  color  or  its  form,  —  the  soul  is  there,  illuminating 
every  feature,  burnishing  every  point,  hallowing  every 
surface.  It  tells  of  honesty,  sincerity,  and  worth ;  it 
tells  of  truth  and  virtue  ;  —  and  you  clasp  the  image 
to  your  heart,  as  the  received  ideal  of  your  fondest 
dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that,  it  may  be  tall  or  short ; 
t  matters  nothing,  —  the  heart  is  there.  The  talk  may 
be  soft  or  low,  serious  or  piquant,  —  a  free  and  honest 
boul  is  warming'  and  softening  it  all.  As  you  speak,  it 
speaks  back  again  ;  as  you  think,  it  thinks  again,  (not 
vn  conjunction,  but  in  the  same  sign  of  the  Zodiac  ;)  as 
you  love,  it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy  is  the  man 

who  can  claim  such  !  The  warmth  that  lies  in  it  is  nol 
>nly  generous,  but  religious,  genial,  devotional,  tende*1 
self-sacrificing,  and  looking  heavenward 

4* 


82  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

A  man  without  some  sort  of  religion  is  at  best  a  poor 
reprobate,  the  foot-ball  of  destiny,  with  no  tie  linking 
him  to  infinity  and  the  wondrous  eternity  that  is  begun 
with  him ;  but  a  woman  without  it  is  even  worse,  —  a 
flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow  without  color,  a  flower 
without  perfume ! 

A.  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail  hopes  and  honor 
with  weak,  shifting  ground-tackle  to  business,  or  to  the 
world ;  but  a  woman  without  that  anchor  which  they  call 
Faith,  is  adrift  and  a-wreck  !  A  man  may  clumsily  con 
trive  a  kind  of  moral  responsibility  out  of  his  relations 
to  mankind  ;  but  a  woman  in  her  comparatively  isolated 
sphere,  where  affection  and  not  purpose  is  the  control 
ling  motive,  can  find  no  basis  for  any  system  of  right 
action  but  that  of  spiritual  faith.  A  man  may  craze 
his  thought  and  his  brain  to  trustfulness  in  such  poor 
harborage  as  Fame  and  Reputation  may  stretch  before 
him  ;  but  a  woman  —  where  can  she  put  her  hope  in 
storms,  if  not  in  Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness,  that  abiding  love,  that 
enduring  hope,  mellowing  every  page  and  scene  of  life, 
Mghting  them  with  pleasantest  radiance,  when  the 
world-storms  break  like  an  army  with  smoking  cannon, 
—  what  can  bestow  it  all  but  a  holy  soul-tie  to  what  is 
above  the  storms,  and  to  what  is  stronger  than  an  army 
with  cannon  ?  Who  that  has  enjo^  ed  the  counsel  and 
Jie  love  of  a  Christian  mother,  but  will  echo  the 


ANTHRA  CITE.  88 

thought  with  energy,  and  hallow  it  with  a  tear  ?  —  «* 
9ioi,je  pleurs  f 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal.  The  whoU 
atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm.  The  heart  that  with 
its  glow  can  light  up  and  warm  a  garret  with  loose 
casements  and  shattered  roof,  is  capable  of  the  best 
love,  —  domestic  love.  I  draw  farther  off,  and  the 
images  upon  the  screen  change.  The  warmth,  the 
hour,  the  quiet,  create  a  home  feeling ;  and  that  feel 
ing,  quick  as  lightning,  has  stolen  from  the  world  of 
fancy  (a  Promethean  theft)  a  home  object,  about  which 
ray  musings  go  on  to  drape  themselves  in  luxurious 
reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the  fire,  in  a 

neat  home  dress  of  sober,  yet  most  adorning  color.  A 
little  bit  of  lace  ruffle  is  gathered  about  the  neck  by  a 
blue  ribbon  ;  and  the  ends  of  the  ribbon  are  crossed 
under  the  dimpling  chin,  and  are  fastened  neatly  by  a 
simple,  unpretending  brooch,  —  your  gift.  The  arm,  a 
pretty  taper  arm,  lies  over  the  carved  elbow  of  the 
oaken  chair  ;  the  hand,  white  and  delicate,  sustains  a 
little  home  volume  that  hangs  from  her  fingers.  The 
forefinger  is  between  the  leaves,  and  the  others  lie  iu 
relief  upon  the  dark  embossed  cover.  She  repeats,  in 
•a  silver  voice,  a  line  that  has  attracted  her  fancy  ;  and 
i'ou  listen,  —  or,  at  any  rate,  you  seem  to  listen,  —  with 
your  eyes  now  on  the  lips,  now  on  the  forehead,  and 


B4  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

now  on  the  finger,  where  glitters  like  a  star  the  mar 
riage-ring — little  gold  band,  at  which  she  does  not 
chafe  —  that  tells  you  —  she  is  yours  ! 

Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that  told  it ! 

The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the  heart,  tells  you  stronger 
and  better,  that  she  is  yours.  And  a  feeling  within, 
where  it  lies  you  know  not,  and  whence  it  comes  you 
now  not,  but  sweeping  over  heart  and  brain  like  a 
fire-flood,  tells  you  too,  that  you  are  hers  !  Irremedi 
ably  bound  as  Hortensio  in  the  play :  — 

"  I  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her!  " 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever :  what  length  of  heat  in  this 
hard  burning  anthracite  !  It  has  scarce  sunk  yet  to  the 
second  bar  of  the  grate,  though  the  clock  upon  the 
church-tower  has  tolled  eleven. 

—  Aye,  mused  I,  gayly,  such  a  heart  does  not  grow 
faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself  in  idle  puffs  of  blaze,  it 
does  not  become  chilly  with  the  passing  years ;  but  it 
gains  and  grows  in  strength  and  heat,  until  the  fire  of 
life  is  covered  over  with  the  ashes  of  death.  Strong 
or  hot  as  it  may  be  at  the  first,  it  loses  nothing.  It 
may  not,  indeed,  as  time  advances,  throw  out,  like  the 
coal-fire,  when  new-lit,  jets  of  blue  sparkling  flame  ;  it 
may  not  continue  to  bubble,  and  gush  like  a  fountain 
*t  its  source,  but  it  will  become  a  strong  river  of  flow 
•ug  charities. 


ANTHRACITE,  85 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan  mountains,, 
almost  a  flood.  On  a  glorious  spring  day  I  leaned  down 
and  tasted  the  water,  as  it  boiled  from  its  sources.  The 
little  temple  of  white  marble,  the  mountain  sides  gray 

with  olive  orchards,  the  white  streak  of  road,  the  taU 

i 

poplars  of  the  river  margin  were  glistening  in  the 
bright  Italian  sunlight  around  me.  Later,  I  saw  it 
when  it  had  become  a  river,  —  still  clear  and  strong, 
flowing  serenely  between  its  prairie  banks,  on  which  the 
white  cattle  of  the  valley  browsed ;  and  still  farther 
down,  I  welcomed  it,  where  it  joins  the  Arno,  —  flowing 
slowly  under  wooded  shores,  skirting  the  fair  Florence, 
and  the  bounteous  fields  of  the  blight  Cascino,  —  gath 
ering  strength  and  volume,  till  between  Pisa  and  Leg 
horn,  in  sight  of  the  wondrous  Leaning  Tower,  and  the 
ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan  port,  it  gave  its  waters  to  its 
life's  grave  —  the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now  with  my  mus 
ings  over  my  garret-grate,  and  offered  a  flowing  image, 
to  bear  along  upon  its  bosom  the  affections  that  were 
grouping  in  my  Reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of  the  fancy 
that  can  set  the  objects  which  are  closest  to  the  hear 
far  down  the  lapse  of  time.  Even  now,  as  the  fire  fades 
slightly,  and  sinks  slowly  towards  the  bar,  which  is  the 
Mai  of  my  hours,  I  seem  to  see  that  image  of  love  which 
has  played  about  the  fire-glow  of  my  grate,  years  hence 


86  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

It  still  covers  the  same  warm,  trustful,  religious  heart 
Trials  have  tried  it ;  afflictions  have  weighed  upon  it 
danger  has  scared  it,  and  death  is  coining  near  to  sub 
due  it ;  but  still  it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner ;  the  face  has  lines  of  care 
and  sorrow,  crossing  each  other  in  a  web  -  work  that 
makes  the  golden  tissue  of  humanity.  But  the  heart  is 
fond  and  steady ;  it  is  the  same  dear  heart,  the  same 
Belf-sacrificing  heart,  warming,  like  a  fire,  all  around  it 
Affliction  has  tempered  joy,  and  joy  adorned  affliction 
Life  and  all  its  troubles  have  become  distilled  into  an 
holy  incense,  rising  ever  from  your  fireside  —  an  offer 
ing  to  your  household  gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift  determination, 
your  impulsive  pride,  your  deep-uttered  vows  to  win  a 
name,  have  all  sobered  into  affection,  —  have  all  blended 
into  that  glow  of  feeling  which  finds  its  centre  and  hope 
and  joy  in  HOME.  From  my  soul  I  pity  him  whose 
soul  does  not  leap  at  the  mere  utterance  of  that  name. 

A  home !  it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  adorable  phantom 
which  sits  highest  on  the  sunny  horizon  that  girdeth 
Life !  When  shall  it  be  reached  ?  When  shall  it  cease 
lo  be  a  glittering  day-dream,  and  become  fully  and 
fairly  yours  ? 

It  is  not  the  house, —  though  that  may  have  its 
charms;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled,  and  streaked 
writh  your  own  footpaths  ;  nor  the  trees,  —  though  their 


ANTHRA  CITE.  87 

,  hadow  be  to  you  like  that  of  a  great  rock  in  a  wearj 
I  And ;  nor  yet  is  it  the  fireside,  with  its  sweet  blaze- 
p'ay ;  nor  the  pictures  which  tell  of  loved  ones ;  nor 
tl  e  cfterished  books  ;  but  more  far  than  all  these,  —  it 
is  the  PRESENCE.  The  Lares  of  your  worship  are  there ; 
thn  altar  of  your  confidence  is  there  ;  the  end  of  your 
worldly  faith  is  there  ;  and  adorning  it  all,  and  sending 
your  blood  in  passionate  flow,  is  the  ecstasy  of  the  con 
viction  that  there  at  least  you  are  beloved ;  that  there 
you  are  understood ;  that  there  your  errors  will  meet 
ever  with  gentlest  forgiveness ;  that  there  your  troubles 
will  be  smiled  away  ;  that  there  you  may  unburden  your 
soul,  fearless  of  harsh,  unsympathizing  ears ;  and  that 
there  you  may  be  entirely  and  joyfully  —  yourself. 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mould  —  and  I  have 
seen  such,  even  in  the  disguise  of  women  —  who  will 
reckon  these  feelings  puling  sentiment.  God  pity  them ! 
as  they  have  need  of  pity. 

That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  loving,  joyful. 

is  there  still ;  it  goes  not,  however  my  spirit  tosses,  be 
cause  my  wish  and  every  will  keep  it  there  unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yellow  and  warm 
*s  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its  best  age,  and  that  age  is 
ipeness. 

A  ripe  heart !    now  I  know  what  Wordsworth  meant 

Then  he  said,  — 

"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket !  " 


88  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

The  town-clock  is  striking  midnight.  The  cold  of 
the  night  wind  is  urging  its  way  in  at  the  door  and  win 
dow  crevice  ;  the  fire  has  sunk  almost  to  the  third  bar 
of  the  grate.  Still  my  dream  tires  not,  but  wraps  fondly 
round  that  image,  now  in  the  far-off,  chilling  mists  of 
age,  growing  sainted.  Love  has  blended  into  rever 
ence ;  passion  has  subsided  into  joyous  content. 

And  what  if  age  conies  ?  said  I,  in  a  new  flush 

of  excitation,  —  what  else  proves  the  wine  ?  What  else 
gives  inner  strength,  and  knowledge,  and  a  steady  pilot- 
hand,  to  steer  your  boat  out  boldly  upon  that  shoreless 
sea  where  the  river  of  life  is  running  ?  Let  the  white 
ashes  gather  ;  let  the  silver  hair  lie  where  lay  the  au 
burn  ;  let  the  eye  gleam  farther  back,  and  dimmer ;  it 
is  but  retreating  toward  the  pure  sky-depths,  an  usher 
to  the  land  where  you  will  follow  after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the  screen  alto 
gether  ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet,  but  presently  the  coal 
slips  down  below  the  third  bar,  with  a  rumbling  sound, 
like  that  of  coarse  gravel  falling  into  a  new-dug  grave. 

She  is  gone ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly,  generously 
while  there  was  mortality  to  kindle  it;  eternity  wil 
surely  kindle  it  better. 

Tears  indeed !  but  they  are  tears  of  thanksgiv 

'ug,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope. 

And  the  eyes  —  full  of  those  tears  which  ministering 


ANTHRACITE.  89 

angels  bestow  —  climb  with  quick  vision  upon  the  an 
gelic  ladder,  and  open  upon  the  futurity  where  she  has 
entered,  and  upon  the  country  which  she  enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are  dead. 

You  are  in  the  death-chamber  of  life  ;  but  you  are 
also  in  the  death-chamber  of  care.     The  world  seem 
sliding  backward  ;  and  hope  and  you  are  sliding  for 
ward.     The  clouds,  the  agonies,  the  vain  expectancies 
the  braggart  noise,  the  fears,  now  vanish  behind  the  cur 
tain  of  the  Past,  and  of  the  Night.    They  roll  from  your 
soul  like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending  Present, 
you  reach  out  your  prayerful  hands  toward  that  bound 
less  Future,  where  God's  eye  lifts  over  the  horizon  like 
sunrise  on  the  ocean.  Do  you  recognize  it  as  an  ear 
nest  of  something  better  ?  Aye,  if  the  heart  has  been 
pure  and  steady, —  burning  like  my  fire, — it  has  learned 
it  without  seeming  to  learn.  Faith  has  grown  upon  it 
as  the  blossom  grows  upon  the  bud,  or  the  flower  upon 
the  slow-lifting  stalk. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  the  dream-land  where  I  live. 
They  sink  with  the  dying  street  noise,  and  vanish  with 
the  embers  of  my  fire.  Even  Ambition,  with  its  hot  and 
shifting  flame,  is  all  gone  out  The  heart  in  the  dimness 
of  the  fading  fire-glow  is  all  itself.  The  memory  of 
what  good  things  have  come  over  it  in  the  troubled 
fouth  life  bear  it  up,  and  hope  and  faith  bear  it  on 


90  REVERJES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Ihere  is  no  extravagant  pulse-glow ;  there  is  no  mad 
fever  of  the  brain;  bat  only  die  soul,  forgetting,  for 
•ace,  all,  save  its  destinies  and  its  capacities  for  good. 
And  it  mounts  higher  and  higher  on  these  wings  of 
thought ;  and  hope  burns  stronger  and  stronger  out  of 
die  ashes  of  decaying  life,  until  die  sharp  edge  of  die 
grave  seems  but  a  foot-scraper  at  die  wicket  of  Elyshnu 

But  what  is  paper;  and  what  are  words?  Tain 
tilings!  The  soul  leaves  diem  behind;  die  pen  stag 
gers  Eke  a  starveling  cripple,  and  your  heart  is  leaving 
h  a  whole  length  of  die  fife-course  behind.  The  soul's 
mortal  longings,  its  poor  baffled  hopes,  are  dim  now  in 
die  light  of  those  infinite  longings  which  spread  over  it. 
•oft  and  holy  as  day-dawn.  Eternity  has  stretched  a 
corner  of  its  mantle  toward  you,  and  die  breath  of  its 
waving  fringe  is  like  a  gale  of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of  die  cinders 
within  my  grate  starded  me,  and  dragged  back  my  fancy 
from  my  flower  chase,  beyond  die  Phlegethon,  to  die 
white  ashes  that  were  now  thick  all  over  die  darkened 

And  this,  mused  I,  is  only  a  bachelor  -  drean 

about  a  pure  and  loving  heart !  And  to-morrow  comes 
cankerous  fife  again :  is  it  wished  for  ?  or.  if  not  wished 
tor,  is  die  not  wishing  wicked  ? 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  diey  can  ?  Are  we 
aot,  after  all,  poor,  groveffing  mortals,  tied  to  earth  and 


ANTHRACITE.  91 

to  each  other?  Are  there  not  sympathies,  and  hopes, 
and  affections  which  can  only  find  their  issue  and  Mess 
ing  in  fellow  absorption  ?  Does  not  the  heart,  steady 
and  pure  as  it  may  be,  and  mounting  on  soul-flights 
often  as  it  dare,  want  a  human  sympathy  perfectly  in 
dulged  to  make  it  healthful  ?  Is  there  not  a  fount  of 
love  for  this  world,  as  there  is  a  fount  of  love  for  the 
other?  Is  there  not  a  certain  store  of  tenderness 
cooped  in  this  heart,  which  must  and  tciU  be  lavished 
before  the  end  comes?  Does  it  not  plead  with  die 
judgment,  and  make  issue  with  prudence,  year  after 
year?  Does  it  not  dog  your  steps  all  through  your 
social  pilgrimage,  setting  up  its  cl*™g  in  forms  fresh 
and  odorous  as  new-blown  heath-bells,  saying.  Come 
away  from  the  heartless,  the  factitious,  the  vain,  and 
measure  your  heart,  not  by  its  constraints,  but  by  its  fid- 
Bess  and  by  its  depth  ?  Let  it  run  and  be  joyous ! 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh  night- 
dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend,  whispering,  Be  satisfied ; 
keep  your  heart  from  running  over ;  bridle  those  affec 
tions  ;  there  is  nothing  worth  loving  ? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over  your  spirit  of 
reverie  like  a  beckoning  angel,  crowned  with  halo,  say- 
ng.  Hope  on,  hope  ever ;  the  heart  and  I  are  kindred 
DOT  mission  wfll  be  fulfilled ;  nature  shall  accomplish  hi 
purpose ;  the  soul  shall  have  its  paradise  ? 

1   threw   myself  upon  my  bed ;    and    as  mj 


92  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp  business  of  the 
morrow,  my  Reverie,  and  its  glowing  images  that  made 
my  heart  bound,  swept  away  like  those  fleecy  rain- 
clouds  of  August,  on  which  the  sun  paints  rainbows, 
driving  southward,  by  a  cool,  rising  wind  from  the 
north. 

1  wonder,  thought  I,  as  I  dropped  asleep,  if  a 

married  man  with  his  sentiment  made  actual,  is,  after 
all,  as  happy  as  we  poor  fellows  in  our  dreams  ? 


THIRD    REVERIE. 

A  CIGAR  THREE  TIMES  LIGHTED. 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR. 


I  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an  Aunt  Tabith y 
who  could  abide  cigars.  My  Aunt  Tabithy  hated 
them  with  a  peculiar  hatred.  She  was  not  only  insen 
sible  to  the  rich  flavor  of  a  fresh,  rolling  volume  of 
smoke,  but  she  could  not  so  much  as  tolerate  the  sight 
of  the  rich  russet  color  of  a  Havana-labelled  box. 
It  put  her  out  of  all  conceit  with  Guava  jelly,  10  find 
it  advertised  in  the  same  tongue,  and  with  the  same 
Cuban  coarseness  of  design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"  But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to  her,  the 
other  morning,  "  there  is  very  much  that  is  good  in  a 
cigar." 

My  aunt,  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her  head,  and 
with  it  her  curls  —  done  up  in  paper. 

"  It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued  I,  puffing. 

"It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "  and  a  most  pleas 
ant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings ;  and  a  capital  com 
nanion  ;  and  a  comforter  — "  and  I  stopped  to  puff. 


96  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

u  You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination,"  said  my  aunt , 
"  and  you  ought  to  be  — "  and  she  stopped  to  put  up 
one  of  her  curls,  which,  with  the  energy  of  her  gestic 
ulation,  had  fallen  out  of  place. 

"  It  suggests  quiet  thoughts,"  continued  I ;  "  and 
makes  a  man  meditative  ;  and  gives  a  current  to  his 
habits  of  contemplation,  —  as  I  can  show  you,"  said  I, 
warming  with  the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers,  —  with  the  pin 
in  her  mouth,  —  gave  a  most  incredulous  shrug. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  and  gave  two  or  three  violent, 
consecutive  puffs, — "Aunt  Tabithy,  I  can  make  up  such 
a  series  of  reflections  out  of  my  cigar,  as  would  do 
your  heart  good  to  listen  to  ! " 

k'  About  what,  pray  ?  "  said  my  aunt,  contemptuously. 

"  About  love,"  said  I,  "  which  is  easy  enough  lighted, 
but  wants  constancy  to  keep  it  in  a  glow.  Or  about 
matrimony,  which  has  a  great  deal  of  fire  in  the  begin 
ning,  but  it  is  a  fire  that  consumes  all  that  feeds  the 
blaze.  Or  about  life,"  continued  I,  earnestly,  "  which  at 
the  first  is  fresh  and  odorous,  but  ends  shortly  in  a 
withered  cinder,  that  is  fit  only  for  the  ground." 

My  aunt,  who  was  forty  and  unmarried,  finished  her 
curl  with  a  flip  of.  the  fingers,  resumed  her  hold  of  the 
broom,  and  leaned  her  chin  upon  one  end  of  it,  with 
in  expression  of  some  wonder,  some  curiosity,  and  a 
great  deal  of  expectation. 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR.  97 

1  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a  little  less 
curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little  less  communicative; 
for  though  it  was  all  honestly  said  on  my  part,  yet  my 
contemplations  bore  that  vague,  shadowy,  and  delicious 
sweetness,  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  put  them  into 
words,  —  least  of  all,  at  the  bidding  of  an  old  lady 
leaning  on  a  broom-handle. 

"  Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  "  a  good  din 
ner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar,  and  I  will  serve  you  such 
a  sunshiny  sheet  of  reverie,  all  twisted  out  of  the 
smoke,  as  will  make  your  kind  old  heart  ache  !  " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either  of  my  men 
tion  of  the  dinner,  or  of  the  smoke,  or  of  the  old  heart, 
commenced  sweeping  furiously. 

"  If  I  do  not,"  continued  I,  anxious  to  appease  her,  — 
•'  if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it  shall  be  my  last  cigar ; 
(Aunt  Tabithy  stopped  sweeping  ;)  and  all  my  tobacco 
money  (Aunt  Tabithy  drew  near  me)  shall  go  to  buy 
ribbons  for  my  most  respectable  and  worthy  Aunt 
Tabithy  ;  and  a  kinder  person  could  not  have  them ;  or 
one,"  continued  I,  with  a  generous  puff,  "  whom  they 
would  more  adorn." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful,  half-thank 
ful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was  struck  ;  my 
part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On  her  part,  Aunt  Tabithy 
was  to  allow  me.  in  case  of  my  success,  an  evening 


98  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

cigar  unmolested,  upon  the  front  porch,  underneath  her 
favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  concluded,  I  say,  as  I  sat; 
the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising  gracefully  around  my 
Aunt  Tabithy's  curls ;  our  right  hands  joined ;  my 
left  was  holding  my  cigar,  while  in  hers  was  tightly 
grasped  —  her  broomstick. 

And  this  Reverie,  to  make  the  matter  short,  is  \vhat 
came  of  the  contract 


Lighted  with  a  Coal. 

TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  setting  the 
*-  end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puff —  and  puff  again 
but  there  is  no  smoke.  There  is  very  little  hope  of 
lighting  from  a  dead  coal;  no  more  hope,  thought  I, 
than  of  kindling  one's  heart  into  flame  by  contact  with 
a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life  ;  and  I 
sat  for  a  moment,  thinking  —  even  before  I  lit  my 
cigar  —  on  the  vanity  and  folly  of  those  poor,  pur 
blind  fellows,  who  go  on  puffing  for  half  a  lifetime 
against  dead  coals.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Heaven,  in 
its  mercy,  has  made  their  senses  so  obtuse,  that  they 
know  not  when  their  souls  are  in  a  flame,  or  when  they 
are  dead.  I  can  imagine  none  but  the  most  moderate 
satisfaction,  in  continuing  to  love  what  has  got  no 
ember  of  love  within  it.  The  Italians  have  a  very 
sensible  sort  of  proverb,  —  amare,  e  non  essere  amato,  t 
tempo  perduto,  —  to  love,  and  not  be  loved,  is  time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging  down  t> 
coal  that  has  no  life  in  it  And  it  seemed  to  me  — 


100  REVERIES  OF  A    BACHELOR. 

and  may  Heaven  pardon  the  ill-nature  that  belongs 
to  the  thought  —  that  there  would  be  much  of  the 
same  kind  of  satisfaction  in  dashing  from  you  a  hike 
warm,  creature,  covered  over  with  the  yellow  ashes  of 
old  combustion,  that  with  ever  so  much  attention,  and 
the  nearest  approach  of  the  lips,  never  shows  signs 
of  fire.  May  Heaven  forgive  me  again,  but  J  should 
long  to  break  away,  though  the  marriage  bonds  held 
me,  and  see  what  liveliness  was  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine  try  to  grow 
up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it  shoots  out  its  tendrils  in 
all  directions,  seeking  for  some  crevice  by  which  to 
fasten  and  to  climb,  —  looking  now  above  and  now 
below,  twining  upon  itself,  reaching  farther  up, —  but 
after  all  finding  no  good  foothold,  and  falling  away  as 
if  in  despair.  But  nature  is  not  unkind ;  twining 
things  were  made  to  twine.  The  longing  tendrils  take 
new  strength  in  the  sunshine  and  in  the  showers,  and 
shoot  out  toward  some  hospitable  trunk.  They  fasten 
easily  to  the  kindly  roughness  of  the  bark,  and  stretch 
up,  dragging  after  them  the  vine ;  which  by-and-by, 
from  the  topmost  bough,  will  nod  its  blossoms  over  at 
the  marble  wall  that  refused  it  succor,  as  if  it  said,  — 
Stand  there  in  your  pride,  cold,  white  wall !  we,  the 
iree  and  I,  are  kindred ;  it  the  helper,  and  I  the  helped  ; 
and,  bound  fost  together,  we  riot  in  the  sunshine  and  iu 
gladness. 


LIGHTED   WITH  A   COAL.  101 

Flie  thought  of  this  image  made  me  search  for  a  new 
coal  that  should  have  some  brightness  in  it.  There 
may  be  a  white  ash  over  it,  indeed, —  as  you  will  find 
tender  feelings  covered  with  the  mask  of  courtesy,  or 
with  the  veil  of  fear,  —  but  with  a  breath  it  all  flies  ofij 
and  exposes  the  heat  and  the  glow  that  you  are  seeking 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of  the  cigai 
crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises,  —  doubtfully  for  a 
while,  and  with  a  coy  delay ;  but  after  a  hearty  respi 
ration  or  two,  it  grows  strong,  and  my  cigar  is  fairly 
lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke  and  of  the  fragrant 
leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a  bloom  about  it  that  you 
wish  might  last.  It  is  like  your  first  love, —  fresh,  gen 
ial,  and  rapturous.  Like  that,  it  fills  up  all  the  craving 
of  your  soul ;  and  the  light,  blue  wreaths  of  smoke,  like 
the  roseate  clouds  that  hang  around  the  morning  of 
your  heart-life,  cut  you  off  from  the  chill  atmosphere 
of  mere  worldly  companionship,  and  make  a  gorgeous 
firmament  for  your  fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later  and  manlier  pas 
sions,  into  which  judgment  must  be  thrusting  its  cold 
tones,  and  when  all  the  sweet  tumult  of  your  heart  has 
mellowed  into  the  sober  ripeness  of  affection.  But  I 
mean  that  boyish  burning  which  belongs  to  every  poor 
•nortal's  lifetime,  and  which  bewilders  him  with  the 
thought  that  he  has  reached  the  highest  point  of  hu- 


102  REVERIES    OF  A    BACHELOR. 

man  joy,  before  he  has  tasted  any  of  that  bitterness 
from  which  alone  our  highest  human  joys  have  spring. 
I  mean  the  time  when  you  cut  initials  with  your  jack- 
knife  on  the  smooth  bark  of  beech-trees;  and  went 
moping  under  the  long  shadows  at  sunset ;  and  thought 
Louise  the  prettiest  name  in  the  wide  world  ;  and 
picked  flowers  to  leave  at  her  door ;  and  stole  out  at 
night  to  watch  the  light  in  her  window  ;  and  read  such 
novels  as  those  about  Helen  Mar,  or  Charlotte,  to  give 
some  adequate  expression  to  your  agonized  feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that  you  are 
deeply  and  madly  in  love  ;  you  persist,  in  the  face  of 
heaven  and  earth.  You  would  like  to  meet  the,  indi 
vidual  who  dared  to  doubt  it. 

You  think  she  has  got  the  tidiest  and  jauntiest  little 
figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You  think  back  upon  some 
time  when,  in  your  games  of  forfeit,  you  gained  a  kiss 
from  those  lips ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the  kiss  was  hanging 
on  you  yet,  and  warming  you  all  over.  And  then  again, 
it  seems  so  strange  that  your  lips  did  really  touch  hers ! 
You  half  question  if  it  could  have  been  actually  so,  — 
uid  how  you  could  have  dared  ;  and  you  wonder  if  you 
would  have  courage  to  do  the  same  thing  again  ?  and 
upon  second  thought  are  quite  sure  you  would,  and  snap 
your  fingers  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and  in  the 
school -room,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up,  what  curls 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL  103 

golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred  Golcondas !  How  bravely 
you  study  the  top  lines  of  the  spelling-book,  that  your 
eyes  may  run  over  the  edge  of  the  cover  without  the 
schoolmaster's  notice,  and  feast  upon  her ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run  away  with 
her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in  the  "  Children  of  the 
Abbey";  and  then  you  might  ride  up  on  a  splendid 
black  horse,  and  draw  a  pistol  or  blunderbuss,  and  shoot 
the  villains,  and  carry  her  back,  all  in  tears,  fainting 
and  languishing  upon  your  shoulder,  and  have  her  fa 
ther  (who  is  Judge  of  the  County  Court)  take  your 
hand  in  both  of  his,  and  make  some  eloquent  remarks. 
A  great  many  such  recaptures  you  run  over  in  your 
mind,  and  think  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  peril  your 
life,  either  by  flood  or  fire,  —  to  cut  off  your  arm,  or 
your  head,  or  any  such  trifle,  for  your  dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joyous  in 
life  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old  castle,  very  far 
away  from  steamboats  and  post-offices,  and  pick  wild 
geraniums  for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry  with  her  under 
ie  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And  you  would  have 
such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some  corner  of  the  old  ruin, 
Tith  a  harp  in  it,  and  books  bound  in  gilt,  with  cupids 
)n  the  cover,  and  such  a  fairy  couch,  with  the  curtains 
lung  —  as  you  have  seen  them  nung  in  some  illustrated 
Arabian  stories  —  upon  a  pair  of  carved  doves  ! 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you  turn  it  off 


104  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

perhaps,  with  saying,  "  It  is  n't  so ; "  but  afterward,  in 
your  chamber,  or  under  the  tree  where  you  have  cut 
her  name,  you  take  Heaven  to  witness  that  it  is  so,  and 
think,  What  a  cold  world  it  is,  to  be  so  careless  about 
such  holy  emotions  !  You  perfectly  hate  a  certain  stou. 
boy  in  a  green  jacket,  who  is  forever  twitting  you,  and 
calling  her  names  ;  but  when  some  old  maiden  aunt 
teases  you  in  her  kind,  gentle  way,  you  bear  it  very 
proudly,  and  with  a  feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a  great 
deal  more  for  her  sake.  And  when  the  minister  reads 
off  marriage  announcements  in  the  church,  you  think 
how  it  will  sound,  one  of  these  days,  to  have  your  name 
and  hers  read  from  the  pulpit ;  and  how  the  people  will 
all  look  at  you,  and  how  prettily  she  will  blush ;  and 
how  poor  little  Dick  —  who  you  know  loves  her,  but  is 
afraid  to  say  so  —  will  squirm  upon  his  bench. 

Heigho  !  mused  I,  —  as  the  blue  smoke  rolled 

up  around  my  head,  —  these  first  kindlings  of  the  love 
that  is  in  one  are  very  pleasant !  but  will  they  last  ? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  as  she 
ttirs  about  the  room.  It  is  better  music  than  grown-up 
ladies  will  make  upon  all  their  harpsichords,  in  the 
years  that  are  to  come.  But  this,  thank  Heaven,  you 
do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  footmark,  on  your  way 
to  the  school ;  and  what  a  dear  little  footmark  it  is ! 
4nd  from  that  single  point,  if  she  be  out  of  your  sight 


105 

for  days,  you  conjure  up  the  whole  image  :  the  elastic, 
lithe  little  figure,  —  the  springy  step, — the  dotted  mus 
lin,  so  light  and  flowing,  —  the  silk  kerchief,  with  its 
most  tempting  fringe  playing  upon  the  clear  white  of 
her  throat ;  how  you  envy  that  fringe  !  And  her  chin 
is  as  round  as  a  peach  ;  and  the  lips,  —  such  lips  !  and 
you  sigh,  and  hang  your  head,  and  wonder  when  you 
shall  see  her  again  ! 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter  ;  but  then,  people 
would  talk  so  coldly  about  it ;  and,  beside,  you  are  not 
quite  sure  you  could  write  such  billets  as  Thaddeus  of 
Warsaw  used  to  write,  and  anything  less  warm  or  ele 
gant  would  not  do  at  all.  You  talk  about  this  one  or 
that  one,  whom  they  call  pretty,  in  the  coolest  way  in 
the  world :  you  see  very  little  of  their  prettiness  ;  they 
ure  good  girls,  to  be  sure  ;  and  you  hope  they  will  get 
good  husbands  some  day  or  other  ;  but  it  is  not  a  mat 
ter  that  concerns  you  very  much.  They  do  not  live  in 
your  world  of  romance  ;  they  are  not  the  angels  of  that 
sky  which  your  heart  makes  rosy,  and  to  which  I  have 
likened  the  blue  waves  of  this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others ;  you  can 
smile  —  as  you  think  —  very  graciously  ;  you  can  say 
laughingly  that  you  are  deeply  in  love  with  them,  and 
u,hink  it  a  most  capital  joke ;  you  can  touch  their  hands, 
»r  steal  a  kiss  from  them  in  your  games,  most  imper- 
Oirbably ;  —  they  are  very  dead  coals. 
5* 


106  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When  you  take  the 
name  on  your  lip,  it  seems,  somehow,  to  be  made  o'  dif 
ferent  materials  from  the  rest ;  you  cannot  half  so  easily 
separate  it  into  letters ;  write  it,  indeed,  you  can,  for 
you  have  had  practice,  very  much  private  practice  on 
odd  scraps  of  paper,  and  on  the  fly-leaves  of  geogra 
phies,  and  of  your  natural  philosophy.  You  know  per 
fectly  well  how  it  looks  ;  it  seems  to  be  written,  indeed 
somewhere  behind  your  eyes,  and  in  such  happy  posi 
tion,  with  respect  to  the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see  it  all 
the  time,  though  you  are  looking  in  an  opposite  direc 
tion,  —  and  so  distinctly,  that  you  have  great  fears  lest 
people  looking  into  your  eyes  should  see  it  too. 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name  to  handle 
than  most  that  you  know  of.  Though  it  is  very  cool 
and  pleasant  on  the  brain,  it  is  very  hot  and  difficult  to 
manage  on  the  lip.  It  is  not,  as  your  schoolmaster 
would  say,  a  name,  so  much  as  it  is  an  idea ;  not  a 
noun,  but  a  verb,  —  an  active,  and  transitive  verb ; 
and  yet  a  most  irregular  verb,  wanting  the  passive 
roice. 

It  is  something  against  your  schoolmaster's  doctrine, 
to  find  warmth  in  the  moonlight ;  but  with  that  soft 
hand  —  it  is  very  soft  —  lying  within  your  arm,  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  warmth,  whatever  the  philosophers 
may  say,  even  in  pale  moonlight.  The  beams,  too, 
breed  sympathies,  very  close-running  sympathies,  not 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  107 

talked  about  in  the  chapters  cm  optics,  and  altogether 
too  fine  for  language.  And,  under  their  influence,  you 
retain  the  little  hand  that  you  had  not  dared  retain  so 
long  before  ;  and  her  struggle  to  recover  it  —  if  indeed 
it  be  a  struggle  —  is  infinitely  less  than  it  was  ;  nay 
it  is  a  kind  of  struggle,  not  so  much  against  you,  as 
between  gladness  and  modesty.  It  makes  you  as  bold 
as  a  lion  ;  and  the  feeble  hand,  like  a  poor  lamb  in  tin 
lion's  clutch,  is  powerless,  and  very  meek  ;  and  failing 
of  escape,  it  will  sue  for  gentle  treatment,  and  will 
meet  your  warm  promise  with  a  kind  of  grateful  press 
ure,  that  is  but  half  acknowledged  by  the  hand  that 
makes  it. 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  freeness ;  and 
from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images  bright  and  quick  as 
lightning,  with  no  thunder  but  the  thunder  of  the  pulse. 
But  will  it  all  last  ?  Damp  will  deaden  the  fire  of  a 
cigar  ;  and  there  are  hellish  damps  —  alas  !  too  many — 
that  will  deaden  the  early  blazing  of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty,  —  growing  prettier  to  your  eye  the 
more  you  look  upon  her,  and  prettier  to  your  ear  the 
more  you  listen  to  her.  But  you  wonder  who  the  tall 
boy  was,  whom  you  saw  walking  with  her  two  days  ago. 
[Ie  was  not  a  bad-looking  boy;  on  the  contrary,  you 
think  (with  a  grit  of  your  teevh)  that  he  was  infernally 
handsome.  You  look  at  him  very  shyly  and  very  closely 
srhen  you  pass  him,  and  turn  to  see  how  he  walks,  and 


108  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

to  measure  his  shoulders,  and  are  quite  disgusted  witn 
the  very  modest  and  gentlemanly  way  with  which  he 
carries  himself.  You  think  you  would  like  to  have  a 
fisticuff  with  him,  if  you  were  only  sure  of  having  the 
best  of  it.  You  sound  the  neighborhood  coyly,  to  find 
out  who  the  strange  boy  is,  and  are  half  ashamed  of 
vourself  for  doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send  her,  and 
tie  it  with  a  green  ribbon  and  love-knot ;  and  get  a 
little  rose-bud  in  acknowledgment.  That  day  you  pass 
the  tall  boy  with  a  very  patronizing  look,  and  wonder  if 
he  would  not  like  to  have  a  sail  in  your  boat? 

But  by-and-by  you  find  the  tall  boy  walking  with  her 
again ;  and  she  looks  sideways  at  him,  and  with  a  kind 
of  grown-up  air  that  makes  you  feel  very  boylike,  and 
humble,  and  furious.  And  you  look  daggers  at  him 
when  you  pass,  and  touch  your  cap  to  her  with  quite 
uncommon  dignity,  —  and  wonder  if  she  is  not  sorry, 
;,nd  does  not  feel  very  badly,  to  have  got  such  a  look 
from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet  her  alone  ; 
*nd  the  sight  of  her  makes  your  face  wear  a  genial, 
sunny  air ;  and  you  talk  a  little  sadly  about  your  fears 
ind  your  jealousies.  She  seems  a  little  sad  and  a  little 
rlad,  together,  and  is  sorry  she  has  made  you  feel 
badly,  —  and  you  are  sorry  too.  And  with  this  pleas- 
<mt  twin  sorrow  you  are  knit  together  again  —  closei 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  IOC 

than  ever.  That  one  little  tear  of  hers  has  been  worth 
more  to  you  than  a  thousand  smiles.  Now  you  love 
her  madly ;  you  could  swear  it,  —  swear  it  to  her,  or 
swear  it  to  the  universe.  You  even  say  as  much  to 
some  kind  old  friend  at  nightfall ;  but  your  mention  of 
Inn  is  tremulous  and  joyful,  with  a  kind  of  bound  in 
your  speech,  as  if  the  heart  worked  too  quick  for  the 
tongue,  and  as  if  the  lips  were  ashamed  to  be  passing 
over  such  secrets  of  the  soul  to  the  mere  sense  of  hear 
ing.  At  this  stage  you  cannot  trust  yourself  to  speak 
her  praises ;  or  if  you  venture,  the  expletives  fly  away 
with  your  thought  before  you  can  chain  it  into  lan 
guage  ;  and  your  speech,  at  your  best  endeavor,  is  but  a 
succession  of  broken  superlatives  that  you  are  ashamed 
of.  You  strain  for  language  that  will  scald  the  thought 
of  her  ;  but  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  it  falls  back  upon 
your  heated  fancy  like  a  cold  shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very  fast ;  and  the 
matter  it  feeds  fastest  on  is  —  judgment;  and  with  judg 
ment  gone,  there  is  room  for  jealousy  to  creep  in.  You 
grow  petulant  at  another  sight  of  that  tall  boy  ;  and  the 
)ne  tear,  which  cured  your  first  petulance,  will  not  cure 
it  now.  You  let  a  little  of  your  fever  break  out  in 
speech  —  a  speech  which  you  go  home  to  mourn  over. 
But  she  knows  nothing  of  the  mourning,  while  she 
knows  very  much  of  the  anger.  Vain  tears  are  very 
apt  to  breed  pride  ;  and  when  you  go  a^ain  with  vo\a 


110  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR 

petulance,  you  will  find  your  rosy-lipped  girl  taking  her 
first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say  :  poor  fool,  you  are  feed 
ing  on  what  your  disease  loves  best !  You  wonder  if 
she  is  not  sighing  for  your  return,  and  if  your  name  is 
not  running  in  her  thought,  and  if  tears  of  regret  are 
not  moistening  those  sweet  eyes. 

And  wondering  thus,  you   stroll    moodily  and 

hopefully  toward  her  father's  home  ;  you  pass  the  door 
once,  twice ;  you  loiter  under  the  shade  of  an  old  tree 
where  you  have  sometimes  bid  her  adieu  ;  your  old  fond 
ness  is  struggling  with  your  pride,  and  has  almost  made 
the  mastery ;  but  in  the  very  moment  of  victory  you  see 
yonder  your  hated  rival,  and  beside  him,  looking  very 
gleeful  and  happy,  —  your  perfidious  Louise. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of  your  struggle, 
and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of  boyhood  ;  and  what  a  dex 
terous  handling  to  your  knife,  and  a  wonderful  keenness 
to  the  edge,  as  you  cut  away  from  the  bark  of  the  beech- 
tree  all  trace  of  her  name  !  Still,  there  is  a  little  silent 
relenting,  and  a  few  tears  at  night,  and  a  little  tremor  of 
die  hand,  as  you  tear  out,  the  next  day,  every  fly-leaf 
lhat  bears  her  name.  But  at  sight  of  your  rival  —  look 
ing  so  jaunty,  and  in  such  capital  spirits  —  you  put  on 
the  proud  man  again.  You  may  meet  her,  but  you  say 
nothing  of  your  struggles ;  oh,  no !  not  one  word  of 
that;  but  you  talk  with  amazing  rapidity  about  youi 


LIGHTED  WITH  A    COAL. 

games,  or  what  not ;  and  you  never  —  never  give  her 
another  peep  into  your  boyish  heart 

For  a  week,  you  do  not  see  her, —  nor  foi'  a  month, — 
nor  two  months,  —  nor  three. 

Puff,  puff,  once  more.  There  is  only  a  littl< 

nauseous  smoke ;  and  now  —  my  cigar  is  gone  out  alto 
get  her.  I  must  lignt  again. 


With  a  Wisp  of 

fl^HERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar  wher 
•*-  once  gone  out ;  they  must  needs  have  plenty  more 
But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard  of  keeps  a  cedar  box  of 
hearts  labelled  at  Havana.  Alas !  there  is  but  one  to 
light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit  be  lighted  again  ?  Authority 
on  this  point  is  worth  something ;  yet  it  should  be  impar 
tial  authority.  I  should  be  loth  to  take  in  evidence  for 
the  fact  —  however  it  should  tally  with  my  hope  —  the 
affidavit  of  some  rakish  old  widower,  who  had  cast  his 
weeds  before  the  grass  had  started  on  the  mound  of  his 
affliction ;  and  I  should  be  as  slow  to  take,  in  way  of 
rebutting  testimony,  the  oath  of  any  sweet  young  girl 
just  becoming  conscious  of  her  heart's  existence  —  by 
its  loss. 

Very  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon  the  quality 
if  the  fire  ;  and  I  can  easily  conceive  of  one  so  pure,  so 
constant,  so  exhausting,  that,  if  it  were  once  gone  out, 
rhether  in  the  chills  of  death,  or  under  the  blasts  of 
pitiless  fortune,  there  would  be  no  rekindling,  simply 


WITH  A    WISP   OF  PAPER.  113 

Decausc  there  would  be  nothing  left  to  kindle.  And  ] 
can  imagine,  too.  a  fire  so  earnest  and  so  true,  that,  what 
ever  malice  might  urge,  or  a  devilish  ingenuity  devise, 
there  could  no  other  be  found,  high  or  low,  far  or  near, 
which  should  not  so  contrast  with  the  first  as  to  make 
it  seem  cold  as  ice. 

I  remember,  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's,  the  hero 
is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress ;  he  is  worked  upon  by  slan 
ders  to  quit  her  altogether,  though  he  has  loved,  and 
does  still  love  passionately.  She  bids  him  adieu,  with 
large  tears  dropping  from  her  e>'es ;  (and  I  lay  down  my 
cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud,  fancying  all  the  while,  with  a 
varlet  impudence,  that  some  Abstemia  is  repeating  it  to 
me:) 

"  Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love ;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  -wife ;  so  good,  that  yon 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion :  and  if  you  bear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  yo*. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  lean  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  paths  with  flowers !  "  * 

Poor  Abstemia  !    Lorenzo  never  could  find  sticfi 

mother :  there  never  could  be  such  another,  for  such 
Lorenzo. 

•  JT*  City  mg*l-Ccp,  Act  ii.  8c-  «. 


114  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old  fire  be  ut 
terly  gone ;  and  can  any  truly-lighted  soul  ever  gro\» 
cold,  except  the  grave  cover  it  ?     The  poets  all  say  no 
Othello,  had  he  lived  a  thousand  years,  would  not  have 
loved  again  ;    nor  Desdemona,  —  nor  Andromache,  — 
nor  Medea,  —  nor  Ulysses, —  nor  Hamlet.     But  in  the 
cool  wreaths  of  the  pleasant  smoke,  let  us  see  wha 
truth  is  in  the  poets. 

What  is  love,  mused  I,  at  the  first,  but  a  mere 

fancy  ?  There  is  a  prettiness  that  your  soul  cleaves  to, 
as  your  eye  to  a  pleasant  flower,  or  your  ear  to  a  soft 
melody.  Presently,  admiration  comes  in,  as  a  sort  of 
balance-wheel  for  the  eccentric  revolutions  of  your 
fancy,  and  your  admiration  is  touched  off'  with  such  neat 
quality  as  respect.  Too  much  of  this,  indeed,  they  say, 
deadens  the  fancy,  and  so  retards  the  action  of  the 
heart-machinery.  But  with  a  proper  modicum  to  serve 
as  a  stock,  devotion  is  grafted  in ;  and  then;  by  an  agree 
able  and  confused  mingling,  all  these  qualities  and  af 
fections  of  the  soul  become  transfused  into  that  vital 
feeling  called  Love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to  another  and 
better  counterpart  of  your  humanity  ;  what  is  left  of  you 
seems  the  mere  husk  of  some  kernel  that  has  been 
stolen.  It  is  not  an  emotion  of  yourts,  which  is  making 
very  easy  voyages  towards  another  soul,  —  that  may  be 
shortened  or  lengthened  at  will ;  but  it  is  a  passion  that 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  115 

Is  only  yours  because  it  is  there;  the  more  it  lodges 
there,  the  more  keenly  you  feel  it  to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion  may,  indeed,  be 
long  to  you,  but  they  never  gave  birth  to  such  an  one 
before,  simply  because  there  was  no  place  in  which  it 
could  grow.  Nature  is  very  provident  in  these  matters. 
The  chrysalis  does  not  burst  until  there  is  a  wing  to 
help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The  shell  does  not  bieak 
until  the  bird  can  breathe ;  nor  does  the  swallow  quit 
its  nest  until  its  wings  are  tipped  with  the  airy  oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in  proportion  as 
the  atmosphere  it  finds  is  tender  of  its  life.  Let  that 
atmosphere  change  into  too  great  coldness,  and  the  pas 
sion  becomes  a  wreck,  —  not  yours,  because  it  is  not 
worth  your  having,  —  nor  vital,  because  it  has  lost  the 
soil  where  it  grew.  But  is  it  not  laying  the  reproach  in 
a  high  quarter,  to  say  that  those  qualities  of  the  heart, 
which  begot  this  passion,  are  exhausted,  and  will  not 
thenceforth  germinate  through  all  of  your  lifetime  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from  youi 

arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of  the  despoiled 
climber  will  not,  at  the  first,  touch  any  new  trellis  ;  they 
cannot  in  a  day  change  the  habit  of  a  year.  But  let  the 
Dew  support  stand  firmly,  and  the  needy  tendrils  will 
presently  lay  hold  upon  the  stranger  ;  and  your  plant  will 
regain  its  pride  and  pomp,  —  cherishing,  perhaps,  in  its 
Dent  figure,  a  memento  of  the  Old,  but  in  its  more  ear- 


116  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

aest  and  abounding  life  mindful  only  of  its  sweet  de 
pendence  on  the  New. 

Let  the  poets  say  what  they  will,  these  affections  of 
ours  are  not  blind,  stupid  creatures,  to  starve  under 
polar  snows,  when  the  very  breezes  of  Heaven  are  the 
appointed  messengers  to  guide  them  toward  warmth 
and  sunshine  ! 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner  I  tea. 

off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and  holding  it  in  the  blaze  of  my 
lamp,  relight  my  cigar.  It  does  not  burn  so  easily,  per 
haps,  as  at  first ;  it  wants  warming  before  it  will  catch  ; 
but  presently  it  is  in  a  broad,  full  glow,  that  throws 
light  into  the  corners  of  my  room. 

Just  so,  thought  I,  the  love  of  youth,  which  suc 
ceeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boyhood,  makes  a  broader 
flame,  though  it  may  not  be  so  easily  kindled.  A  mere 
dainty  step,  or  a  curling  lock,  or  a  soft  blue  eye,  are  not 
enough  ;  but  in  her  who  has  quickened  the  new  blaze 
there  is  a  blending  of  all  these,  with  a  certain  sweetnebs 
of  soul  that  finds  expression  in  whatever  feature  or 
motion  you  look  upon.  Her  charms  steal  over  you 
gently,  and  almost  imperceptibly.  You  think  that  she 
is  a  pleasant  companion,  —  nothing  more  ;  and  you  find 
the  opinion  strongly  confirmed  day  by  day,  —  so  wel 
confirmed,  indeed,  that  you  begin  to  wonder  why  it  is 
that  she  is  such  a  delightful  companion  ?  It  cannot  be 
her  eye,  for  you  have  seen  eyes  almost  as  pretty  as 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  117 

Nelly's  ;  nor  can  it  be  her  mouth,  though  Nelly's  mouth 
is  certainly  very  sweet.  And  you  keep  studying  what 
on  earth  it  can  be  that  makes  you  so  earnest  to  be  near 
her,  or  to  listen  to  her  voice.  The  study  is  pleasant 
you  do  not  know  any  study  that  is  more  so,  or  which 
you  accomplish  with  less  mental  fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the  air  is  balmy 
and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's  voice  and  manner  more 
balmy  still,  you  wonder  if  you  are  in  love  ?  When  a 
man  has  such  a  wonder,  he  is  either  very  near  love,  or 
he  is  very  far  away  from  it ;  it  is  a  wonder  that  is  either 
suggested  by  his  hope,  or  by  that  entanglement  of  feel 
ing  which  blunts  all  his  perceptions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a  strong  fancy  ; 
so  strong,  that  you  tell  your  friends  carelessly  that  she 
is  a  nice  girl,  nay,  a  beautiful  girl ;  and  if  your  educa 
tion  has  been  bad,  you  strengthen  the  epithet  on  your 
own  tongue  with  a  very  wicked  expletive,  of  which  the 
mildest  form  would  be  —  "  deuced  fine  girl !  "  Pres 
ently,  however,  you  get  beyond  this,  and  your  compan 
ionship  and  your  wonder  relapse  into  a  constant,  quiet 
habit  of  unmistakable  love,  —  not  impulsive,  quick, 
and  fiery,  like  the  first,  but  mature  and  calm.  It  is  as 
if  it  were  born  with  your  soul ;  and  the  recognition  o~ 
t  was  rather  an  old  remembrance  than  a  fresh  passion. 
It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  exuberance  and  force  with 
SUCH  relief  as  night-serenades,  or  any  Jacques-like  med 


1.18  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

itations  in  the  forest ;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still  joy,  that 
Hoats  on  your  hope  into  the  years  to  come,  making  the 
prospect  all  sunny  and  joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever  was  stormy 
or  harmful ;  it  gives  a  permanence  to  the  smile  of  ex 
istence.  It  does  not  make  the  sea  of  your  life  turbulent 
with  high  emotions,  as  if  a  strong  wind  were  blowing, 
but  it  is  as  if  an  Aphrodite  had  broken  on  the  surface, 
and  .the  ripples  were  spreading  with  a  sweet,  low  sound, 
and  widening  far  out  to  the  very  shores  of  Time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to  bolster  up 
your  feelings  with  extravagant  vows ;  even  should  you 
try  this  in  her  presence,  the  words  are  lacking  to  put 
such  vows  in.  So  soon  as  you  reach  them,  they  fail 
you  ;  and  the  oath  only  quivers  on  the  lip,  or  tells  its 
story  by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers.  You  wear  a  brusque, 
pleasant  air  with  your  acquaintances,  and  hint  —  with 
a  sly  look  —  at  possible  changes  in  your  circumstances. 
Of  an  evening,  you  are  kind  to  the  most  unattractive  of 
the  wall-flowers,  —  if  only  your  Nelly  is  away  ;  and  you 
nave  a  sudden  charity  for  street-beggars  with  pale  chil 
dren.  You  catch  yourself  taking  a  step  in  one  of 
the  new  polkas,  upon  a  country  walk  ;  and  wonder  im 
niensely  at  the  number  of  bright  days  which  succeed 
each  other,  without  leaving  a  single  stormy  gap  for  your 
ild  melancholy  moods.  Even  the  chambermaids  at  your 
lotel  never  did  their  duty  one  half  so  well  :  and  as  foi 


WITH  A   WISP    JF   PAPER.  119 

your  man  Tom,  he  is  become  a  perfect  pattern  of  a 
fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow  ;  but  it  has  gone  out  onco, 
and  it  may  go  out  again. 

You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage  ;  but  some  obsti 
nate  papa  or  guardian  uncle  thinks  that  it  will  neve 
do,  —  that  it  is  quite  too  soon,  or  that  Nelly  is  a  mer6 
girl.  Or  some  of  your  wild  oats  —  quite  forgotten  by 
yourself — shoot  up  on  the  vision  of  a  staid  mamma,  and 
throw  a  very  damp  shadow  on  your  character.  Or  the 
old  lady  has  an  ambition  of  another  sort,  which  you,  a 
simple,  earnest,  plodding  bachelor,  can  never  gratify  ;  — 
being  of  only  passable  appearance,  and  unschooled  in 
the  fashions  of  the  world,  you  will  be  eternally  rubbing 
the  elbows  of  the  old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflictive  to  one  who  has 
been  living  for  quite  a  number  of  weeks  or  months  in 
a  pleasant  dream-land,  where  there  were  no  five  per 
cents,  or  reputations,  but  only  a  very  full  and  delirious 
Row  of  feeling.  What  care  you  for  any  position,  except 
n  position  near  the  being  that  you  love  ?  What  wealth 
io  you  prize,  except  a  wealth  of  heart  that  shall  never 
know  diminution  ;  or  for  reputation,  except  that  of  truth 
and  of  honor  ?  How  hard  it  would  break  upon  these 
pleasant  idealities  to  have  a  weazen-faced  old  guardian 
let  his  arm  in  yours,  and  tell  you  how  tenderly  he  has 
it  heart  the  happiness  of  his  niece ;  and  reason  with 


120  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

you  about  your  very  small  and  sparse  dividends,  and 
your  limited  business  ;  and  caution  you  —  for  he  has  a 
lively  regard  for  your  interests  —  about  continuing  your 
addresses  ? 

The  kind  old  curmudgeon  ! 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a  very  stupid 
fellow ;  and  all  your  charity  for  withered  wall-flowers  is 
gone.  Perhaps,  in  your  wrath,  the  suspicion  comes  over 
you  that  she  too  wishes  you  were  something  higher,  or 
more  famous,  or  richer,  or  anything  but  what  you  are  !  — 
a  very  dangerous  suspicion ;  for  no  man  with  any  true 
nobility  of  soul  can  ever  make  his  heart  the  slave  of 
another's  condescension. 

But  no !  you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe  this  of  Nelly. 
That  face  of  hers  is  too  mild  and  gracious ;  and  her 
manner,  as  she  takes  your  hand  after  your  heart  is  made 
sad,  and  turns  away  those  rich  blue  eyes,  shadowed  more 
deeply  than  ever  by  the  long  and  moistened  fringe,  — 
and  the  exquisite  softness  and  meaning  of  the  pressure 
of  those  little  fingers, — and  the  low,  half  sob,  —  and 
the  heaving  of  that  bosom  in  its  struggles  between  love 
and  duty,  —  all  forbid.  Nelly,  you  could  swear,  is  ten 
derly  indulgent  —  like  the  fond  creature  that  she  is  — 
toward  all  your  shortcomings,  and  would  not  barter 
your  strong  love  and  your  honest  heart  for  the  great 
est  magnate  in  the  land. 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love  of  a  true 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  121 

hearted  woman  !  That  last  fond  look  of  hers,  hopeful 
and  encouraging,  has  more  power  within  it  to  nerve 
your  soul  to  high  deeds  than  all  the  admonitions  of  all 
your  tutors.  Your  heart,  beating  large  with  hope,  quick 
ens  the  flow  upon  the  brain,  and  you  make  wild  vows  to 
win  greatness.  But  alas  !  this  is  a  great  world  —  very 
full  and  very  rough,  — 

"  all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do ; 
All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer."  * 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a  name  ;  and 
long  days  and  months  and  years  must  be  passed  in  the 
chase  of  that  bubble  —  reputation ;  which,  when  once 
grasped,  breaks  in  your  eager  clutch  into  a  hundred 
lesser  bubbles  that  soar  above  you  still. 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time,  and  a  note 
or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up  the  blaze  in  your  heart. 
But  presently  the  lynx-eyed  old  guardian  —  so  tender 
of  your  interests  and  hers  —  forbids  even  this  irregular 
and  unsatisfying  correspondence.  Now  you  can  feed 
yourself  only  on  stray  glimpses  of  her  figure,  as  full  of 
sprightliness  and  grace  as  ever ;  and  that  beaming  face, 
you  are  half  sorry  to  see  from  time  to  time,  still  beau 
tiful.  You  struggle  with  your  moods  of  melancholy 
and  wear  bright  looks  yourself,  —  bright  to  her,  and 
very  bright  to  the  eye  of  the  old  curmudgeon  who  has 

6          » Fettui. 


122  REVERIES   OF  'A  BACHELOR. 

snatched  your  heart  away-     It  will  never  do  to  show 
your  weakness  to  a  man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you  learn  that 
she  is  gone,  —  too  far  away  to  be  seen,  too  closely 
guarded  to  be  reached.  For  a  while  you  throw  down 
your  books,  and  abandon  your  toil  in  despair,  thinking 
very  bitter  thoughts,  and  making  very  hopeless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning  ;  but  it  will  require  constan 
and  strong  respiration  to  keep  it  in  a  glow. 

A  letter  or  two,  dispatched  at  random,  relieve  the 
excess  of  your  fever,  until,  with  practice,  these  random 
letters  have  even  less  heat  in  them  than  the  heat  of 
your  study  or  of  your  business.  Grief,  thank  God  !  is 
not  so  progressive  or  so  cumulative  as  joy.  For  a  time 
there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  mood  with  which  you  recall 
your  broken  hopes,  and  with  which  you  selfishly  link 
hers  to  the  shattered  wreck  ;  but  absence  and  ignorance 
tame  the  point  of  your  woe.  You  call  up  the  image  of 
Nelly  adorning  other  and  distant  scenes.  You  see  the 
tearful  smile  give  place  to  a  blithesome  cheer ;  and  the 
thought  of  you,  that  shaded  her  fair  face  so  long,  fades 
i  nder  the  sunshine  of  gayety ;  or,  at  best,  it  only  seems 
to  cross  that  white  forehead  like  a  playful  shadow  that 
a  fleecy  cloud-remnant  will  fling  upon  a  sunny  lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world,  with  its  whirl  and  roar,  is  deaf« 
euing  the  sweet,  distant  notes  that  come  up  through  old, 
choked  channels  of  the  affections.  Life  is  calling  foi 


WITH  A   WISP   OF  PAPER.  128 

earnestness,  and  not  for  regrets.  So  the  monihs  and 
the  years  slip  by ;  your  bachelor  habit  grows  easy  and 
light  with  wearing  ;  you  have  mourned  enough  to  smile 
at  the  violent  mourning  of  others  ;  and  you  have  en 
joyed  enough  to  sigh  over  their  little  eddies  of  delight 
Dark  shades  and  delicious  streaks  of  crimson  and  gold 
color  lie  upon  your  life.  Your  heart,  with  all  its  weight 
of  ashes,  can  yet  sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a  fairy  step, 
and  your  face  can  yet  open  into  a  round  of  joyous 
smiles  —  that  are  almost  hopes  —  in  the  presence  of 
some  bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this  there  will  float  over  you,  from  time  to 
time,  a  midnight  trance,  in  which  you  will  hear  again 
with  a  thirsty  ear  the  witching  melody  of  the  days  that 
are  gone ;  and  you  will  wake  from  it  with  a  shudder 
into  the  cold  resolves  of  your  lonely  and  manly  life. 
But  the  shudder  passes  as  easy  as  night  from  morning. 
Tearful  regrets,  and  memories  that  touch  to  the  quick, 
are  dull  weapons  to  break  through  the  panoply  of  your 
seared  eager,  and  ambitious  manhood.  They  only 
venture  out,  like  timid,  white-winged  flies,  when  night  is 
come  ;  and  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  dawn  they  shrivel 
up,  and  lie  without  a  flutter  in  some  corner  of  your 
soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she  has  re 
turned  —  a  woman,  there  is  a  slight  glow,  but  no  tumult 
uous  bound  of  the  heart.  Life  and  time  have  worried 


124  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

you  down  like  a  spent  hound.  The  world  has  givec 
you  a  habit  of  easy  and  unmeaning  smiles.  You  half 
accuse  yourself  of  ingratitude  and  forgetfulness ;  but 
the  accusation  does  not  oppress  you.  It  does  not  even 
distract  your  attention  from  the  morning  journal.  You 
cannot  work  yourself  into  a  respectable  degree  of  iii- 
lignation  against  the  old  gentleman  —  her  guardian. 

You  sigh  —  poor  thing !  —  and  in  a  very  flashy  waist 
coat  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly,  —  a  comely,  matronly  dame 
in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gathered  under  a  high- 
topped  comb  ;  and  she  presents  to  you  two  little  boys 
in  smart  crimson  jackets  dressed  up  with  braid.  And 
you  dine  with  Madame  —  a  family  party ;  and  the 
weazen-faced  old  gentleman  meets  you  with  a  most 
pleasant  shake  of  the  hand,  —  hints  that  you  were 
*mong  his  niece's  earliest  friends,  and  hopes  that  you 
tire  getting  on  well. 

Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert,  —  Dick,  to  get  a 
plum  from  your  own  dish  ;  Tom,  to  be  kissed  by  his 
•osy-faced  papa.  In  short,  you  are  made  perfectly  at 
home  ;  and  you  sit  over  your  wine  for  an  hour,  in  a 
viosy  smoke  with  the  gentlemanly  uncle,  and  with  the 
very  courteous  husband  of  your  second  flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table  ;  for  good  wine  is,  I 
ind,  a  great  strengthener  of  the  bachelor  heart.  But 


WITH   A   WISP  OF  PAPER.  125 

afterward,  when  night  has  fairly  set  in,  and  the  blaze 
of  your  fire  goes  flickering  over  your  lonely  quarters, 
you  heave  a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your  thought  runs 
back  to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and  calls  up  the  married 
and  matronly  Nelly,  you  scb  over  that  poor  dumb  heart 
within  you,  which  craves  so  madly  a  free  and  joyous 
utterance !  And  as  you  lean  over,  with  your  forehead 
in  your  hands,  and  your  eyes  fall  upon  the  old  hound 
slumbering  on  the  rug,  the  tears  start,  and  you  wish 
that  you  had  married  years  ago,  and  that  you  too  had 
your  pair  of  prattling  boys,  to  drive  away  the  loneliness 
of  your  solitary  hearth-stone. 

My  cigar  would  not  go  ;  it  was  fairly  out.     But, 

with  true  bachelor  obstinacy,  I  vowed  that  I  would 
light  again. 


m. 

I/ifjhted  with  a  Match. 

IT  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brimstone 
matches  were  never  made  in  heaven ;  and  it  is 
sad  to  think  that,  with  few  exceptions,  matches  are  all 
of  them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the  coals 
being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a  match  is  all  that  is 
left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first  trial ;  and 
there  are  those  that,  with  the  most  indefatigable  coax 
ings,  never  show  a  spark.  They  may  indeed  leave  in 
their  trail  phosphorescent  streaks,  but  you  can  no 
more  light  your  cigar  at  them  than  you  can  kindle 
your  heart  at  the  covered  wife-trails  which  the  infer 
nal,  gossiping,  old  match-makers  will  lay  in  your 
path. 

Was  there  ever  a  bachelor  of  seven-and-twenty,  I 
wonder,  who  has  not  been  haunted  by  pleasant  old 
ladies,  and  trim,  excellent,  good-natured  married  friends 
who  talk  to  him  about  nice  matches  — "  very  nicr 
matches," — matches  which  never  go  off?  And  \vh. 


LIGHTED   WITH  A   MATCH.  127 

pray,  has  not  had  some  kind  old  uncle  to  fill  two  sheets 
for  him  (perhaps  in  the  time  of  heavy  postages)  about 
some  most  eligible  connection  —  "  of  highly  respectable 
parentage ! " 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a  withered  bach 
elor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the  dignity  of  an  ancestral  tree 
What  a  precious  surprise  for  him,  who  has  ail  his  life 
worshipped  the  wing-heeled  Mercury,  to  find  on  a  sud 
den  a  great  stock  of  preserved  and  most  respectable 
Penates ! 

In  God's  name,  thought  I,  puffing  vehemently, 

what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him  for,  if  not  to  choose 
where  his  heart's  blood,  every  drop  of  it,  is  flowing  ? 
Who  is  going  to  dam  these  billowy  tides  of  the  soul, 
whose  roll  is  ordered  by  a  planet  greater  than  the 
moon,  and  that  planet  —  Venus?  Who  is  going  to 
shift  this  vane  of  my  desires,  when  every  breeze  that 
passes  in  my  heaven  is  keeping  it  all  the  more  strongly 
to  its  fixed  bearings  ? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money-matches,  urged 
upon  you  by  disinterested  bachelor  friends,  who  would 
be  very  proud  to  see  you  at  tbe  head  of  an  establish 
tnent.  And  I  must  confess  that  this  kind  of  talk  has 
a  pleasant  jingle  about  it,  and  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
aids  to  a  bachelor's  day-dreams  that  can  well  be  im- 
tgined.  And  let  not  the  pouting  lady  condemn  me 
srithout  a  hearing. 


128  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think  — for  a  contemplative 
bachelor  —  that  the  pretty  ermine  which  so  sets  off  the 
transparent  hue  of  your  imaginary  wife,  or  the  lace 
which  lies  so  bewitchingly  upon  the  superb  roundness 
of  her  form,  or  the  graceful  bodice,  trimmed  to  a 
line,  which  is  of  such  exquisite  adaptation  to  her  lithe 
figure,  will  be  always  at  her  command ;  nay,  that  these 
are  only  units  among  the  chameleon  hues,  under  which 
you  shall  feed  upon  her  beauty  !  I  want  to  know  if  it 
is  not  a  pretty  cabinet  picture  for  fancy  to  luxuriate 
upon  —  that  of  a  sweet  wife,  who  is  cheating  hosts  of 
friends  into  love,  sympathy,  and  admiration,  by  the 
modest  munificence  of  her  wealth?  Is  it  not  rather 
agreeable  to  feed  your  hopeful  soul  upon  that  abun 
dance,  which,  while  it  supplies  her  need,  will  give  a 
range  to  her  loving  charities ;  which  will  keep  from  her 
brow  tbe  shadows  of  anxiety,  and  will  sublime  her 
gentle  nature,  by  adding  to  it  the  grace  of  an  angel  of 
mercy  ? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the  pestilent  humors 
of  bachelorhood  hang  heavy  on  you,  to  foresee  in  that 
shadowy  realm,  where  hope  is  a  native,  the  quiet  of  a 
home  made  splendid  with  attractions,  and  made  real 
by  the  presence  of  her  who  bestows  them  ?  Upon  my 
word,  —  thought  I,  as  I  continued  puffing,  —  such  a 
match  must  make  a  very  grateful  lighting  of  one's 
'nner  sympathies;  nor  am  I  prepared  to  say  that  such 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  129 

associations  would  not  add  force  to  the  most  abstract 
love  imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment :  what  is  it  that  we  poor 
fellows  love  ?  We  love  —  if  one  may  judge  for  himself, 
over  his  cigar  —  gentleness,  beauty,  refinement,  gener 
osity,  and  intelligence, —  and  far  above  these,  a  return 
ing  love,  made  up  of  all  these  qualities,  and  gaining 
upon  your  love,  day  by  day  and  month  by  month,  like 
a  sunny  morning  gaining  upon  the  frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refinement ;  and  it  is 
a  security  for  gentleness,  since  it  removes  disturbing 
anxieties ;  and  it  is  a  pretty  promoter  of  intelligence, 
since  it  multiplies  the  avenues  for  its  reception ;  and  it 
is  a  good  basis  for  a  generous  habit  of  life :  it  even 
equips  beauty,  neither  hardening  its  hand  with  toil,  nor 
tempting  the  wrinkles  to  come  early.  But  whether  it 
provokes  greatly  that  returning  passion,  that  abnega 
tion  of  soul,  that  sweet  trustfulness  and  abiding  affec 
tion  which  are  to  clothe  your  heart  with  joy,  is  far 

* 
more  doubtful.     Wealth,  while  it  gives  so  much,  asks 

much  in  return  ;  and  the  soul  that  is  grateful  to  mam 
mon  is  not  over-ready  to  be  grateful  for  intensity  of 
tove.  It  is  hard  to  gratify  those  who  have  nothing  left 
\o  gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man,  who,  having  wearied  his  soul 
with   delays   and   doubts,  or   exhausted   the  freshness 
ind  exuberance  of  his  youth  by  a  hundred  little  dally- 
6* 


130  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

ings  of  love,  consigns  himself  at  length  to  the  issues  of 
what  people  call  a  nice  match,  —  whether  of  money,  01 
of  a  family ! 

Heaven  help  you  (I  brushed  the  ashes  from  my  cigar) 
when  you  begin  to  regard  marriage  as  only  a  respect 
able  institution,  and  under  the  advices  of  staid  old 
friends  begin  to  look  about  you  for  some  very  respect 
able  wife.  You  may  admire  her  fig~ure,  and  her  family, 
and  bear  pleasantly  in  mind  the  very  casual  mention 
which  has  been  made  by  some  of  your  penetrating 
friends  that  she  has  large  expectations.  You  think 
that  she  would  make  a  very  capital  appearance  at  the 
head  of  your  table  ;  nor,  in  the  event  of  your  coming  to 
any  public  honor,  would  she  make  you  blush  for  her 
breeding.  She  talks  well,  exceedingly  well ;  and  her 
face  has  its  charms,  especially  under  a  little  excitement 
Her  dress  is  elegant  and  tasteful,  and  she  is  constantly 
remarked  upon  by  all  your  friends  as  a  "  nice  person." 
Some  good  old  lady,  in  whose  pew  she  occasionally  sits 
on  a  Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  has  sometimes  sent  a 
vapier-mache  card-case  for  the  show-box  of  some  Dor 
cas  benevolent  society,  thinks,  with  a  sly  wink,  that  she 
would  make  a  fine  wife  for  —  somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure,  and  the  mar 
riage  of  some  half-dozen  of  your  old  flames  warn  you 
that  time  is  slipping  and  your  chances  failing.  And  in 
lie  pleasant  warmth  of  some  after-dinner  mood  yo.i 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  131 

resolve  —  with  her  image  in  her  prettiest  pelisse  drift 
ing  across  your  brain  —  that  you  will  marry.  Now 
comes  the  pleasant  excitement  of  the  chase ;  and  what 
ever  family  dignity  may  surround  her,  only  adds  to  the 
pleasurable  glow  of  the  pursuit.  You  give  an  hour 
more  to  your  toilette,  and  a  hundred  or  two  more  a 
year  to  your  tailor.  All  is  orderly,  dignified,  and  gra 
cious.  Charlotte  is  a  sensible  woman,  everybody  says  ; 
and  you  believe  it  yourself.  You  agree  in  your  talk 
about  books,  and  churches,  and  flowers.  Of  course  she 
has  good  taste  —  for  she  accepts  you.  The  acceptance 
is  dignified,  elegant,  and  even  courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations  ;  and  your  old 
friend  Tom  writes  you  —  that  he  hears  you  are  going  to 
marry  a  splendid  woman ;  and  all  the  old  ladies  say  — 
what  a  capital  match  !  And  your  business  partner, 
who  is  a  married  man  and  something  of  a  wag,  "  sym 
pathizes  sincerely."  Upon  the  whole,  you  feel  a  little 
proud  of  your  arrangement.  You  write  to  an  old  friend 
in  the  country  that  you  are  to  marry  presently  Miss 
Charlotte  of  such  a  street,  whose  father  was  something 
very  fine  in  his  way,  and  whose  father  before  him  was 
rery  distinguished  ;  you  add,  in  a  postscript,  that  she 
is  easily  situated,  and  has  "  expectations."  Your  friend, 
tfho  has  a  wife  that  he  loves  and  that  loves  him.  writes 
back  kindly,  —  "  hoping  you  may  be  happy  ;  "  and  hop- 
.ng  so  yourself,  you  light  your  cigar  —  one  of  your  las! 
bachelor  cigars  —  with  the  margin  of  his  letter. 


132  REVERIES   OF   4    BACHELOR. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  marriage, — at 
which  you  receive  a  very  elegant  welcome  from  your 
wife's  spinster  cousins,  and  drink  a  great  deal  of  cham 
pagne  with  her  bachelor  uncles.  And  as  YOU  take  the 
dainty  hand  of  your  bride,  —  very  magnificent  under 
that  bridal  wreath,  and  with  her  face  lit  up  by  a  brill 
iant  glow,  —  your  eye  and  your  soul  for  the  first  time 
grow  full.  And  as  your  arm  circles  that  elegant  figure, 
and  you  draw  her  toward  you,  feeling  that  she  is  yours, 
there  is  a  bound  at  your  heart  that  makes  you  think 
your  soul-life  is  now  whole  and  earnest.  All  your  early 
dreams  and  imaginations  come  flowing  on  your  thought 
like  bewildering  music ;  and  as  you  gaze  upon  her,  — 
the  admiration  of  that  crowd,  —  it  seems  to  you  that  all 
that  your  heart  prizes  is  made  good  by  the  accident  of 
marriage. 

—  Ah,  thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes  again,  bridal 
pictures  are  not  home  pictures,  and  the  hour  at  the 
altar  is  but  a  poor  type  of  the  waste  of  years ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered  ;  Charlotte  has 
secured  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and  she  meets  the 
compliments  of  your  old  friends,  who  come  to  dine  with 
you,  with  a  suavity  that  is  never  at  fault.  And  they 
tell  you  —  after  the  cloth  is  removed,  and  you  sit  quietly 
smoking  in  memory  of  the  olden  times  —  that  she  is  a 
splendid  Avoman.  Even  the  old  ladies  who  come  for 
xxasional  charities,  think  Madame  a  pattern  of  a 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  138 

»ady ;  and  so  think  her  old  admirers,  whom  sho  re 
ceives  still  with  an  easy  grace  that  half  puzzles  you, 
And  as  you  stand  by  the  ballroom  door,  at  two  of  the 
morning,  with  your  Charlotte's  shawl  upon  your  arm. 
Borne  little  panting  fellow  will  confirm  the  general  opin 
ion  by  telling  you  that  Madame  is  a  magnificent  dancer ; 
and  Monsieur  le  Comte  will  praise  extravagantly  her 
French.  You  are  grateful  for  all  this  ;  but  you  have 
an  uncommonly  serious  way  of  expressing  your  grati 
tude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  fellow  ;  and 
yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over  your  thought,  and  you 
wonder  that  the  sight  of  your  Charlotte  in  the  dress 
you  used  to  admire  so  much  does  not  scatter  them  to 
the  winds  ;  but  it  does  not.  You  feel  coy  about  putting 
your  arm  around  that  delicately  robed  figure,  —  you 
might  derange  the  plaitings  of  her  dress.  She  is  civil 
towards  you,  and  tender  towards  your  bachelor  friends. 
She  talks  with  dignity,  —  adjusts  her  lace  cape,  —  and 
hopes  you  will  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  for  the  sake 
of  the  family.  Her  cheek  is  never  soiled  with  a  tear 
and  her  smiles  are  frequent,  especially  when  you  have 
some  spruce  young  fellows  at  your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes  perhaps,  whose 
superscription  you  do  not  know  ;  and  some  of  her  ad 
mirers'  attentions  become  so  pointed  and  constant  that 
Four  pride  is  stirred.  It  would  be  silly  to  show  jeai 


134  REVERIES   Or  A  BACHELOR. 

Dusy  ;  but  you  suggest  to  your  "  dear  "  —  as  you  sip 
your  tea  —  the  slight  impropriety  of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little  scene,  as  a 
proof  of  wounded  confidence  ;  but  no  —  nothing  of  that ; 
she  trusts  (calling  you  "  my  dear  ")  that  she  knows  how 
to  sustain  the  dignity  of  her  position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart  for  comment,  or  for  reply. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul,  of  which 

you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are  gone  ?  Is  this 
the  blending  of  sympathies  that  was  to  steal  from  life 
its  bitterness,  and  spread  over  care  and  suffering  the 
sweet  ministering  hand  of  kindness  and  of  love  ?  Aye, 
you  may  well  wander  back  to  your  bachelor  club,  and 
make  the  hours  long  at  the  journals,  or  at  play,  —  kill 
ing  the  flagging  lapse  of  your  life  !  Talk  sprightly  with 
your  old  friends,  and  mimic  the  joy  you  have  not,  —  or 
you  will  wear  a  bad  name  upon  your  hearth,  and  head. 
Never  suffer  your  Charlotte  to  catch  sight  of  the  tears 
which  in  bitter  hours  may  start  from  your  eye ;  or  to 
hear  the  sighs  which  in  your  times  of  solitary  musings 
may  break  forth  sudden  and  heavy.  Go  on  counter 
feiting  your  life  as  you  have  begun.  It  was  a  nice 
match  ;  and  you  are  a  nice  husband  ! 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God  !  toward  whom 
your  heart  runs  out  freely ;  and  you  love  to  catch  him 
fn  his  respite  from  your  well-ordered  nursery  and  the 
of  his  teachers  —  alone  ;  and  to  spend  upon  bin- 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    MATCH.  135 

*  little  of  that  depth  of  feeling  which  through  so  many 
years  has  scarce  been  stirred.  You  play  with  him  at 
his  games ;  you  fondle  him ;  you  take  him  to  your 
bosom. 

—  But  papa,  he  says,  see  how  you  have  tumbled  my 
collar.  What  shall  I  tell  mamma  ? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you ! 

Ah  !  thought  I,  (my  cigar  was  getting  dull  and  nause 
ous,)  is  there  not  a  spot  in  your  heart  that  the  gloved 
hand  of  your  elegant  wife  has  never  reached, —  that  you 
wish  it  might  reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend  :  his  was  not  a  "  nice 
match  "  ;  he  was  married  years  before  you,  and  yet  the 
beaming  looks  of  his  wife,  and  his  lively  smile,  are  as 
fresh  and  honest  as  they  were  years  ago ;  and  they  make 
you  ashamed  of  your  disconsolate  humor.  Your  stay 
is  lengthened,  but  the  home  letters  are  not  urgent  for 
your  return  ;  yet  they  are  marvellously  proper  letters, 
and  rounded  with  a  French  adieu.  You  could  have 
wished  a  little  scrawl  from  your  boy  at  the  bottom,  in 
the  place  of  the  postscript  which  gives  you  the  names 
of  a  new  opera  troupe,  and  you  hint  as  much,  —  a  very 
bold  stroke  for  you. 

Ben,  she  says,  writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return  there  is  no  great  anticipation  of 
itlight ;  in  contrast  with  the  old  dreams  that  a  pleasant 
summers  journey  has  called  up,  your  parlor,  as  you 


186  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

inter  it,  —  so  elegant,  so  still,  so  modish,  —  seems  the 
•harnel-house  of  your  heart 

By-and-by  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sickness  ;  you 
have  capital  nurses,  nurses  highly  recommended,  nurses 
who  never  make  mistakes,  nurses  who  have  served  long 
in  the  family.  But  alas  for  that  heart  of  sympathy,  and 
for  that  sweet  face  shaded  with  your  pain,  —  like  a  sol 
Undscape  with  flying  clouds,  —  you  have  none  of  them 
Your  pattern  wife  may  come  in,  from  time  to  time,  to 
look  after  your  nurse,  or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  and 
glide  out,  —  her  silk  dress  rustling  upon  the  door,  like 
dead  leaves  in  the  cool  night-breezes  of  winter.  Or 
perhaps,  after  putting  this  chair  in  its  place,  and  adjust 
ing  to  a  more  tasteful  fold  that  curtain,  she  will  ask  you, 
with  a  tone  that  might  mean  sympathy  if  it  were  not  a 
stranger  to  you,  if  she  can  do  anything  more. 

Thank  her,  as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  close  your  eyes, 
and  dream  ;  or  rouse  up,  to  lay  your  hand  upon  the  head 
of  your  little  boy,  —  to  drink  in  health  and  happiness 
lYom  his  earnest  look,  as  he  gazes  strangely  upon  your 
pale  and  shrunken  forehead.  Your  smile  even,  ghastly 
with  long  suffering,  disturbs  him ;  there  is  no  interpreter 
save  the  heart,  between  you 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his  flushed,  health 
ful  face  ;  and  he  steps  about  on  tiptoe,  at  a  motion  from 
the  nurse,  to  look  at  all  those  rosy-colored  medicines 
ipon  the  table ;  and  he  takes  your  cane  from  the  corner 


LIGHTED  WITH  A   MATCH.  181 

and  passes  his  hand  over  the  smooth  ivory  head ;  and 
he  runs  his  eye  along  the  wall,  from  picture  to  picture, 
till  it  rests  on  one  he  knows,  —  a  figure  in  bridal  dress, 
beautiful,  almost  fond,  —  and  he  forgets  himself,  and 
says  aloud,  "  There  's  mamma  !  " 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip  ;  you  waken  from 
your  doze  to  see  where  your  eager  boy  is  looking  ;  and 
your  eyes  too  take  in  as  much  as  they  can  of  that  fig 
ure,  now  shadowy  to  your  fainting  vision  —  doubly 
shadowy  to  your  fainting  heart ! 

From  day  to  day  you  sink  from  life :  the  physician 
says  the  end  is  not  far  off;  why  should  it  be  ?  There  is 
very  little  elastic  force  within  you  to  keep  the  end  away. 
Madame  is  called,  and  your  little  boy.  Your  sight  is 
dim,  but  they  whisper  that  she  is  beside  your  bed  ;  and 
you  reach  out  your  .hand  —  both  hands.  You  fancy  you 
hear  a  sob:  a  strange  sound!  It  seems  as  if  it  came  from 
distant  years,  —  a  confused,  broken  sigh,  sweeping  over 
the  long  stretch  of  your  life  ;  and  a  sigh  from  your 
heart,  not  audible,  answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand  of  your  little 
boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward  you,  and  move  your  lips 
5is  if  you  would  speak  to  him  ;  and  they  place  his  head 
near  you,  so  that  you  feel  his  fine  hair  brushing  your 
c-heek.  —  My  boy,  you  must  love  —  your  mother ! 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive  grasp,  and 
something  like  a  tear  drops  upon  your  face.  Good  God 
Can  it  be  indeed  a  tear? 


138  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile  flits  ovet 
your  features  as  you  seem  to  see  her  figure  —  the  figure 
of  the  painting  —  bending  over  you  ;  and  you  feel  a 
bound  at  your  heart,  —  the  same  bound  that  you  felt  on 
your  bridal  morning,  the  same  bound  which  you  used  to 
feel  in  the  spring-time  of  your  life. 

Only  one  —  rich,  full  bound  of  the  heart :  — • 

that  is  all! 

My  cigar  was  out  I  could  not  have  lit  it  again, 

if  I  would.  It  was  wholly  burned. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  as  I  finished  reading,  "  ma^ 
I  smoke  now  under  your  rose-tree  ?  " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her  knitting  to  hear 
me,  smiled,  brushed  a  tear  from  her  old  eyes,  said,  u  Yes, 
Isaac;"  and  having  scratched  the  back  of  her  heal  with 
the  disengaged  needle,  resumed  her  knitting. 


FOURTH   REVERIE. 

MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


FT  is  a  spring  day  under  the  oaks,  the  loved  oaks  of 
•*-  a  once  cherished  home,  now,  alas !  mine  no  longer. 

I  had  sold  the  old  farm-house,  and  the  groves,  and 
the  cool  springs  where  I  had  bathed  mj  head  in  the 
heats  of  summer;  and  with  the  first  warm  days  of  May 
they  were  to  pass  from  me  forever.  Seventy  years  they 
had  been  in  the  possession  of  my  mother's  family  ;  for 
seventy  years  they  had  borne  the  same  name  of  propri 
etorship  ;  for  seventy  years  the  flares  of  our  country 
home  —  often  neglected,  almost  forgotten,  yet  bright 
ened  from  time  to  time  by  gleams  of  heart-worship  — 
had  held  their  place  in  the  sweet  valley  of  Elmgrove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American  life  of 
ours,  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holiday.  The  hurry  of 
action  and  progress  may  pass  over  it  with  quick  step 
but  the  footprints  are  many  and  deep.  You  surely  will 
not  wonder  that  it  made  me  sad  and  thoughtful  to  break 
the  chain  of  years  that  bound  to  my  heart  the  oaks,  the 
Hills,  the  springs,  the  valley,  —  and  such  a  valley  ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it,  —  large  enough  tc 


142  REVERIES    OF  A    BACHELOR. 

make  a  river  for  English  landscape,  —  winding  between 
rich  banks,  where  in  summer-time  the  swallows  build 
their  nests,  and  brood  by  myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the  margin,  and 
with  their  uplifted  anus  and  leafy  spray  throw  great 
patches  of  shade  upon  the  meadow.  Old  lion-like  oaks, 
too,  where  the  meadow-soil  hardens  into  rolling  upland, 
fasten  to  the  ground  with  their  ridgy  roots,  and  with 
their  gray,  scraggy  limbs  make  delicious  shelter  for  the 
panting  workers,  or  for  the  herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream  —  where  I  am  lying — the 
banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping  hills  covered  with 
groves  of  oaks,  and  green  pasture  lands  dotted  with 
mossy  rocks.  And  farther  on,  where  some  wood  has 
been  swept  down,  some  ten  years  gone,  by  the  axe,  the 
new  growth,  heavy  with  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  spring, 
covers  wide  spots  of  the  slanting  land ;  while  some  dead 
tree  in  the  midst  still  stretches  out  its  bare  arms  to  the 
blast,  —  a  solitary  mourner  over  the  wreck  of  its  forest 
brothers. 

Eastward,  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into  wavy  meadows, 
upon  whose  farther  edge  you  see  the  roofs  of  an  old 
mansion,  with  tall  chimneys,  and  taller  elm-trees  shading 
it.  Beyond,  the  hills  rise  gently,  and  sweep  away  into 
wood-crowned  heights  that  are  blue  with  distance.  At 
the  upper  end  of  the  valley  the  stream  is  lost  to  the  eye 
m  a  wide  swamp  wood,  which  in  the  autumn-time  is 


OfORNlNG,   NOON,   AND    EVENING.        143 

covered  with  a  scarlet  sheet,  blotched  here  and  there 
by  the  dark  crimson  stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on, 
the  hills  crowd  close  to  the  brook,  and  come  down  with 
granite  boulders,  and  scattered  birch-trees  and  beeches, 
—  under  which,  upon  the  smoky  mornings  of  May,  I 
have  time  and  again  loitered,  and  thrown  my  line  into 
the  pools,  which  curl,  dark  and 'still,  under  their  tanglet' 
roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through  the  openings 
of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a  broad  stretch  of 
meadow,  with  glimpses  of  the  silver  surface  of  the 
stream,  and  of  the  giant  solitary  elms,  and  of  some  old 
maple  that  has  yielded  to  the  spring-tides,  and  now 
clips  its  lower  boughs  in  the  insidious  current ;  and 
of  clumps  of  alders,  and  willow-tufts,  —  above  which 
even  now  the  black-and-white-coated  Bob-o'-Lincoln  is 
wheeling  his  musical  flight,  while  his  quieter  mate  sits 
swaying  on  the  topmost  twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  distance  of  me, 
and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude  timber  bridge  ;  beside 
the  bridge  is  a  broad,  glassy  pool,  shaded  by  old  maples 
and  hickories,  where  the  cattle  drink  each  morning  on 
their  way  to  the  hill-pastures.  A  step  or  two  beyond 
*iie  stream,  a  lane  branches  across  the  meadows  to  the 
mansion  with  the  tall  chimneys.  I  can  just  remember 
now  the  stout,  broad-shouldered  old  gentleman  —  with 
bis  white  hat,  his  long  white  hair,  and  his  white-headed 


144  REVERIES  OF -A  BACHELOR. 

5ane  —  who  built  the  house,  and  who  farmed  the  whole 
valley  around  me.  He  is  gone  long  since  ;  and  lies  in  a 
^rave-yard  looking  upon  the  sea  !  The  elms  that  he 
planted  shake  their  weird  arms  over  the  mouldering 
roofs ;  and  his  fruit-garden  shows  only  a  battered  pha 
lanx  of  mossy  limbs,  which  will  scarce  tempt  the  July 
marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side  the  brook,  the 
road  is  lost  to  view  among  the  trees  ;  but  if  I  were  to 
follow  the  windings  upon  the  hill-side,  it  would  bring 
me  shortly  upon  the  old  home  of  my  grandfather:  there 
is  no  pleasure  in  wandering  there  now.  The  woods,  that 
sheltered  it  from  the  northern  winds,  are  cut  down  ;  the 
tall  cherries,  that  made  the  yard  one  leafy  bower,  are 
dead.  The  cornice  is  straggling  from  the  eaves ;  the 
porch  has  fallen  ;  the  stone  chimney  is  yawning  with 
wide  gaps.  Within,  it  is  even  worse :  the  floors  sway 
upon  the  mouldering  beams;  the  doors  all  sag  from 
their  hinges  ;  the  rude  frescos  upon  the  parlor-wall  are 
peeling  off;  all  is  going  to  decay.  —  And  my  grand 
father  sleeps  in  a  little  grave-yard,  by  the  garden-wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road  within  a  few 
yards  of  me,  and  leads  back,  along  the  edge  of  the 
meadow,  to  the  homely  cottage  which  has  been  my  spe 
cial  care.  Its  gray  porch  and  chimney  are  thrown  into 
rich  relief  by  a  grove  of  oaks  that  skirts  the  hill  behind 
it;  and  the  doves  are  flying  uneasily  about  the  open 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.        146 

ioors  of  the  granary  and  barns.  The  morning  sun 
shines  pleasantly  on  the  gray  group  of  buildings  ;  and 
the  lowing  of  the  cows,  not  yet  driven  a-field,  adds  to 
the  charming  homeliness  of  the  scene.  But  alas  for  the 
poor  azalias,  and  laurels,  and  vines,  that  I  had  put  out 
upon  the  little  knoll  before  the  cottage-door !  they  are 
all  of  them  trodden  down  ;  only  one  poor  creeper  hangs 
its  loose  tresses  to  the  lattice,  all  dishevelled  and  for 
lorn  ! 

This  by  -  lane,  which  opens  upon  my  farm  -  house, 
leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a  grove  of  oaks ;  the 
brown  gate  swings  upon  an  oak-tree,  —  the  brown  gate 
closes  upon  an  oak-tree.  There  is  a  rustic  seat,  built 
between  two  veteran  trees  that  rise  from  a  little  hillocl 
near  by.  Half  a  century  ago,  there  was  a  rustic  seat  on 
the  same  hillock,  between  the  same  veteran  trees.  I  can 
trace  marks  of  the  old  blotches  upon  the  bark,  and  the 
scars  of  the  nails  upon  the  scathed  trunks.  Time  and 
time  again  it  has  been  renewed.  This,  the  last,  was 
built  by  my  own  hands,  —  a  cheerful  and  a  holy  duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grandfather  used  to 
loiter  here  with  his  gun,  while  his  hounds  lay  around 
under  the  scattered  oaks.  Now  he  sleeps,  as  I  said,  ir 
the  little  graveyard  yonder,  where  I  can  see  one  or  two 
white  tablets  glimmering  through  the  foliage.  I  never 
new  him  ;  he  died,  as  the  brown  stone  table  says,  aged 
twenty-six.  Yesterday  I  climbed  the  wall  that  skirts 


146  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

the  yard,  and  plucked  a  flower  from  his  tomb.  T  take 
out  now  from  my  pocket-book  that  flower,  —  a  frail 
first-blooming  violet,  —  and  write  upon  the  slip  of  paper 
into  which  I  have  thrust  its  delicate  stem :  "  From  n-y 
grandfather's  tomb :  —  1850." 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll  —  far  more 
lear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors  have  sometimes  told 
me  how  they  have  seen,  forty  years  ago,  two  rosy-faced 
girls  idling  on  this  spot  under  the  shade,  and  gathering 
acorns,  and  making  oak-leaved  garlands  for  their  fore 
heads.  Alas,  alas !  the  garlands  they  wear  now  are  not 
earthly  garlands. 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat,  I  am  lying 
this  May  morning.  I  have  placed  my  gun  against  a 
tree  ;  my  shot-pouch  I  have  hung  upon  a  broken  limb. 
I  have  thrown  my  feet  upon  the  bench,  and  lean  against 
one  of  the  gnarled  oaks  between  which  the  seat  is  built. 
My  hat  is  off;  my  book  and  paper  are  beside  me  ;  and 
my  pencil  trembles  in  my  fingers  as  I  catch  sight  of 
those  white  marble  tablets  gleaming  through  the  trees, 
from  the  height  above  me,  like  beckoning  angel-faces. 
—  If  they  were  alive  !  —  two  more  near  and  dear  friends, 
in  a  world  where  we  count  friends  by  units ! 

It  is  morning  —  a  bright  spring  morning  under  the 
wiks  —  these  loved  oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home. 
Last  night  I  slept  in  yonder  mansion  under  the  elms. 
Phe  cattle  going  to  the  pasture  are  drinking  in  the  poo 


MORNING,   NOON,  AND   EVENING.      147 

by  the  bridge ;  the  boy,  who  drives  them,  is  making  his 
ghrill  halloo  echo  against  the  hills.  The  sun  has  risen 
fairly  over  the  eastern  heights,  and  shines  brightly  upon 
the  meadow  land,  and  brighfy  upon  a  bend  of  the  brook 
below  me.  The  birds  —  the  bluebirds  sweetest  and 
noisiest  of  all  —  are  singing  over  me  in  the  branches. 
A.  woodpecker  is  hammering  at  a  dry  limb  aloft ;  ar.d 
Carlo  pricks  up  his  ears  and  listens,  and  looks  at  me,  — 
then  stretches  out  his  head  upon  his  paws,  in  a  warm 
bit  of  the  sunshine,  and  sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  Past ;  and  the  past 
brings  up  not  only  its  actualities,  not  only  its  events 
and  memories,  but  —  stranger  still  —  what  might  have 
been.  Every  little  circumstance,  which  dawns  on  the 
awakened  memory,  is  traced  not  only  to  its  actual,  but 
to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the  I'ast !  —  a  great 
and  gorgeous,  a  rich  and  holy  world  !  Your  fancy  fills 
it  up  artist-like ;  the  darkness  is  mellowed  off  into  soft 
shades ;  the  bright  spots  are  veiled  in  the  sweet  atmos 
phere  of  distance ;  and  fancy  and  memory  together 
make  up  a  rich  dream-land  of  the  past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper  some  of 
die  visions  that  float  across  that  dream-land  of  the 
Morning,  I  will  not  —  I  cannot  say,  how  much  comes 
fancy-wise,  and  how  much  from  this  vaulting  memory 
Of  this  the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be  judge. 


The  Morning. 

FSABEL  and  I  —  she  is  my  cousin,  and  is  seven 
years  old,  and  I  am  ten  —  are  sitting  together  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  under  an  oak-tree  that  leans 
half-way  over  to  the  water.  I  am  much  stronger  than 
she,  and  taller  by  a  head.  I  hold  in  my  hands  a  little 
alder-rod,  with  which  I  am  fishing  for  the  roach  and 
minnows  that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the  water,  or 
playing  with  the  captured  fish  that  lie  upon  the  bank. 
She  has  auburn  ringlets  that  fall  down  upon  her 
shoulders  ;  and  her  straw  hat  lies  back  upon  them,  held 
only  by  the  strip  of  ribbon  that  passes  under  her  chin. 
But  the  sun  does  not  shine  upon  her  head,  for  the  oak- 
tree  above  us  is  full  of  leaves  ;  and  only  here  and  there 
%  dimple  of  the  sunlight  plays  upon  the  pool  where 
;im  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright ;  and  now  and  then  she 
turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of  girlish  curiosity,  as  I  lift 
up  my  rod,  —  and  again  in  playful  menace,  as  she  grasps 
(n  her  little  fingers  one  of  the  dead  fish,  and  threatens 
U)  throw  it  back  upon  the  stream.  Her  little  feet  hang 


THE    MORNING. 

Dver  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  from  time  to  time  she 
reaches  down  to  dip  her  toe  in  the  water,  and  laughs 
a  girlish  laugh  of  defiance,  as  I  scold  her  for  frighten 
ing  away  the  fishes. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  what  if  you  should  tumble  in  the 
-ivur  ?" 

"  Kut  I  won't." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  should  ?  " 

"  Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 

"  But  if  I  would  n't  pull  you  out  ?  " 

"  But  I  know  you  would;  would  nt  you,  Paul?" 

*  What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella?" 

"  Because  you  love  Bella." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ?  " 

"  Because  once  you  told  me  so  ;  and  because  you 
pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  cannot  reach ;  and  because 
jrou  let  me  take  your  rod  when  you  have  a  fish  upon  it" 

"  But  that 's  no  reason,  Bella." 

"  Then  what  is,  Paul  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 

A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long  time  at  the 
bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing  up  and  down  ;  and 
oow  he  is  fairly  hooked,  and  pulls  away  toward  the 
bank,  and  you  cannot  see  the  cork. 

—  "Here,  Bella,  quick!" — and  she  springs  eagerly 
to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the  rod.  But  the  fish 
aas  dragged  it  away  on  the  other  side  of  me  ;  and  as 


160  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

she  reaches  farther  and  farther,  she  slips,  cries  "  Oh 
Paul !  "  —  and  falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came,  was  over  a 
man's  head:  it  is  surely  over  little  Isabel's.  I  fling 
down  the  rod,  and  thrusting  one  hand  into  the  roots 
that  support  the  overhanging  bank,  I  grasp  at  her  hat 
as  she  comes  up;  but  the  ribbons  give  way,  and  I  see 
the  terribly  earnest  look  upon  her  face  as  she  goes 
down  again.  Oh,  my  mother !  thought  I,  if  you  were 
only  here ! 

But  she  rises  again  ;  this  time  I  thrust  my  hand  into 
her  dress,  and  struggling  hard  keep  her  at  the  top,  until 
I  can  place  my  foot  down  upon  a  projecting  root ;  and 
so  bracing  myself.  I  drag  her  to  the  bank,  and  having 
climbed  up,  take  hold  of  her  belt  firmly  with  both 
hands,  and  drag  her  out ;  and  poor  Isabel,  choked, 
chilled,  and  wet,  is  lying  upon  the  grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen  in  the 
*ields  hear  me.  and  come  down.  One  takes  Isabel  in 
his  arms,  and  I  follow  on  foot  to  our  uncle's  home  upon 
the  hill. 

— "  Oh,  my  children  ! "  says  my  mother ;  and  she 
takes  Isabel  in  her  arms ;  and  presently,  with  dry 
clothes,  and  blazing  wood-fire,  little  Bella  smiles  again 
I  am  at  my  mother's  knee. 

"  I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel.  —  "  Aunty,  does  n 
Paul  love  me  ?  " 


THE   MORNING.  161 

u  I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"  I  know  so,"  said  I ;  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it  ?  The  boy  does  not  ask  ,  the 
man  does.  Oh,  the  freshness,  the  honesty,  the  vigoi 
of  a  boy's  heart !  —  how  the  memory  of  it  refreshes 
like  the  first  gush  of  spring,  or  the  break  of  an  Apiil 
shower ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  Pride,  as  well  as  its  Loves. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man.  I  fear  him,  when 
be  calls  me  "  child  " ;  I  love  him,  when  he  calls  me 
"  Paul."  He  is  almost  always  busy  with  his  books  ;  and 
when  I  steal  into  the  library-door,  as  I  sometimes  do, 
with  a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heaping  basket  of  nuts,  to 
show  to  him,  he  looks  for  a  moment  curiously  at  them, 
sometimes  takes  them  in  his  fingers,  gives  them  back 
to  me,  and  turns  over  the  leaves  of  his  book.  You 
are  afraid  to  ask  him,  if  you  have  not  worked  bravely ; 
yet  you  want  to  do  so. 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your  mother.  She 
scarce  looks  at  your  little  stores  ;  but  she  draws  you  to 
her  with  her  arm,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon  your  forehead. 
Now  your  tongue  is  unloosed  ;  that  kiss  and  that  action 
have  done  it ;  you  will  tell  what  capital  luck  you  have 
had,  and  you  hold  up  your  tempting  trophies;  —  "Are 
they  not  greit,  mother?"  B-it  she  is  looking  in  your 
face,  and  not  at  your  prize. 

"  Take  them,  mother  ; "  and  you  lay  the  basket  upon 
«r  lap. 


152  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

"  Thank  yon,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them  ;  but  you  must 
give  some  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  playful  cousin  Isa- 
bel.  And  we  sit  down  together  on  the  grass,  and  I  pour 
out  my  stores  between  us.  "  You  shall  take,  Bella,  whai 
you  wish  in  your  apron,  and  then,  when  study-hours  are 
over,  we  will  have  such  a  time  down  by  the  big  rock  in 
the  meadow ! " 

"  But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me,"  says  Isabel. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  do  you  love  your  papa  ?  " 

«  Yes,"  says  Bella  ;  "  why  not? " 

"  Because  he  is  so  cold  ;  he  does  not  kiss  you,  Bella, 
so  often  as  my  mother  does ;  and  besides,  when  he  for 
bids  your  going  away,  he  does  not  say,  as  mother  does, 
'  My  little  girl  will  be  tired,  she  had  better  not  go  ; '  but 
he  says  only,  '  Isabel  must  not  go.'  I  wonder  what 
makes  him  talk  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  does  n't  —  At  any 
rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my  mother  is  sick,  you 
know." 

"  But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your  mother  too. 
Come,  Bella,  we  will  go  ask  her  if  we  may  go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys,  pleading  with 
the  kindest  of  mothers.  And  the  young  heart  leans 
into  that  mother's  heart ;  —  none  of  the  void  now  that 
wrill  overtake  it  like  an  opening  Korah  gulf  in  the  years 
ihat  are  to  come.  It  is  joyous,  full,  and  running  over 


THE  MORNING.  15b 

*  You  may  go,"  she  says,  "  if  your  uncle  is  willing." 

"  But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him  ;  I  do  not  be- 
neve  he  loves  me." 

'•  Don't  say  so,  Paid  ; "  and  she  draws  you  to  her  side, 
as  if  she  would  supply  by  her  own  love  the  lacking  love 
of  a  universe. 

"  Go  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask  him  kindly 
and  if  he  says  No,  make  no  reply." 

And  with  courage  we  go  hand-in-hand,  and  steal  in 
at  the  library-door.  There  he  sits  —  I  seem  to  see  him 
now  —  in  the  old  wainscoted  room  covered  over  with 
books  and  pictures  ;  and  he  wears  his  heavy-rimmed 
spectacles,  and  is  poring  over  some  big  volume  full  of 
hard  words  that  are  not  in  any  spelling-book.  We 
step  up  softly,  and  Isabel  lays  her  little  hand  upon 
his  arm ;  and  he  turns  and  says,  "  Well,  my  little 
daughter  ?  " 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock  in  the 
meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid,  "  we  cannot 

go-" 

"  But  why,  uncle  ?  It  is  only  a  little  way,  and  we  will 
be  very  careful." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  children.  Do  not  say  any  more 
Y"ou  can  have  the  pony  and  Tray,  and  play  at  home." 

"  But,  uncle  "  — 

"  You  need  say  no  more,  my  child.'' 

7* 


L&4  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look  in 
my  own  half-filling  with  tears.  I  feel  that  my  forehead 
is  flushed,  and  I  hide  it  behind  Bella's  tresses,  whisper 
ing  to  her  at  the  same  time,  "  Let  us  go." 

"  What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking  my  meaning 
do  you  persuade  her  to  disobey  ?  " 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly, "  No,  sir,  I  did  n't ! 
And  then  my  rising  pride  will  not  let  me  say  that  I 
wished  only  Isabel  should  go  out  with  me. 

Bella  cries ;  and  I  shrink  out,  and  am  not  easy  until 
I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my  mother's  bosom. 
Alas !  pride  cannot  always  find  such  covert.  There 
will  be  times  when  it  will  harass  you  strangely ;  when 
it  will  peril  friendships  —  will  sever  old,  standing  inti 
macy  ;  and  then  —  no  resource  but  to  feed  on  its  own 
bitterness.  Hateful  pride  !  to  be  conquered  as  a  man 
would  conquer  an  enemy,  or  it  will  make  whirlpools  in 
the  current  of  your  affections,  —  nay,  turn  the  whole  tide 
pf  the  heart  into  rough  and  unaccustomed  channels. 

But  boyhood  has  its  Grief  too,  apart  from  Pride. 

You  love  the  old  dog  Tray  ;  and  Bella  loves  him  a 
well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble  old  fellow,  with  shaggy  hair 
and  long  ears,  and  big  paws  that  he  will  put  up  into 
vour  hand,  if  you  ask  him.  And  he  never  gets  angry 
when  you  play  with  him,  and  tumble  him  over  in  the 
.ong  grass,  and  pull  his  silken  ears.  Sometimes,  to  be 
•Hire,  he  will  open  his  mouth  as  if  he  would  bite,  but 


THE   MORNING.  166 

when  he  gets  your  hand  fairly  in  his  jaws,  he  will  scarne 
leave  the  print  of  his  teeth  upon  it.  He  will  swim,  too, 
bravely,  and  bring  ashore  all  the  sticks  you  throw  upon 
the  water ;  and  when  you  fling  a  stone  to  tease  him,  he 
swims  round  and  round,  and  whines  and  looks  sorry  that 
e  cannot  find  it. 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of  nuts,  too,  in 
nis  mouth,  and  never  spill  one  of  them  ;  and  when  you 
come  out  to  your  uncle's  home  in  the  spring,  after  stay 
ing  a  whole  winter  in  the  town,  he  knows  you  —  old 
Tray  does !  And  he  leaps  upon  you,  and  lays  his  paws 
on  your  shoulder,  and  licks  your  face,  and  is  almost  as 
glad  to  see  you  as  cousin  Bella  herself.  And  when  you 
put  Bella  on  his  back  for  a  ride,  he  only  pretends  to 
bite  her  little  feet ;  but  he  would  n't  do  it  for  the  world. 
Aye,  Tray  is  a  noble  old  dog  ! 

But  one  summer  the  farmers  say  that  some  of  their 
sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the  dogs  have  worried  them ; 
and  one  of  them  comes  to  talk  with  my  uncle  about  it 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep  ;  you  know  he  never 
aid  ;  and  so  does  nurse  ;  and  so  does  Bella ;  for  in  the 
spring  she  had  a  pet  lamb,  and  Tray  never  worried 
ittle  Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong  to  the  neigh 
bors  are  shot ;  though  nobody  knows  who  shot  them  , 
and  you  have  great  fears  about  poor  Tray ;  and  try  tc 
keep  him  at  home,  and  fondle  him  more  than  ever.  Bui 


156  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Fray  will  sometimes  wander  off;  till,  finally,  one  aftei 
aeon  he  comes  back   whining  piteously,  and  with  hia 
shoulder  all  bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  loud ;  and  you  almost  cry,  as  nurse 
dresses  the  wound ;  and  poor  old  Tray  whines  very 
*aJly.  You  pat  his  head,  and  Bella  pats  him  ;  and  you 
sit  clowr  together  by  him  on  the  floor  of  the  porch,  and 
bring  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  upon,  and  try  and  tempt  him 
with  a  little  milk  ;  and  Bella  brings  a  piece  of  cake  for 
him,  —  but  he  will  eat  nothing.  You  sit  up  till  very 
late,  long  after  Bella  has  gone  to  bed,  patting  his  head, 
and  wishing  you  could  do  something  for  poor  Tray ; 
but  he  only  licks  your  hand,  and  whines  more  piteously 
than  ever. 

In  the  morning  you  dress  early,  and  hurry  down 
stairs  ;  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the  rug ;  and  you  run 
through  the  house  to  find  him,  and  whistle  and  call  — 
Tray !  Tray  !  At  length  you  see  him  lying  in  his  old 
place  out  by  the  cherry-tree,  and  you  run  to  him.  —  but 
he  does  not  start ;  and  you  lean  down  to  pat  him,  —  but 
he  is  cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet  upon  him.  Poor  Tray  is 
.lead ! 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  pat  again 
those  glossy  ears,  and  cry  ;  but  you  cannot  bring  him  to 
.'ife.  And  Bella  comes  and  cries  with  you.  You  can 
hardly  bear  to  have  him  put  in  the  ground  ;  but  uncle 
says  he  must  be  buried.  So  one  of  the  workmen  digi 


THE  MORNING.  157 

a  grave  vinder  the  cherry-tree  where  he  died,  —  -  a  deep 
grave  ;  and  they  round  it  over  with  earth,  and  smooth 
the  sods  upon  it ;  —  even  now  I  can  trace  Tray'g 
grave. 

You  and  Bella  together  put  up  a  little  slab  for  a 
tombstone  ;  and  she  hangs  flowers  upon  it,  and  tie* 
them  there  with  a  bit  of  ribbon.  You  can  scarce  plaj 
all  that  day  ;  and  afterward,  many  weeks  later,  when 
you  are  rambling  over  the  fields,  or  lingering  by  the 
brook,  throwing  off  sticks  into  the  eddies,  you  think  of 
old  Tray's  shaggy  coat,  and  of  his  big  paw,  and  of  his 
honest  eye ;  and  the  memory  of  your  boyish  grief  comes 
upon  you,  and  you  say,  with  tears,  "  Poor  Tray  ! "  And 
Bella  too,  in  her  sad,  sweet  tones,  says,  "  Poor  old  Tray, 
he  is  dead ! " 

School-Days. 

THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened  rain  ;  be 
sides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and  the  winds  were  getting 
harsh,  and  rustling  among  the  tree-tops,  that  shaded 
the  house,  most  dismally.  I  did  not  dare  to  listen.  If 
indeed  I  were  to  stay  by  the  bright  fires  of  home,  and 
gather  the  nuts  as  they  fell,  and  pile  up  the  falling 
.eaves,  to  make  great  bonfires  with  Ben  and  the  rest 
jf  the  boys,  I  should  have  liked  to  listen,  and  would 
have  braved  the  dismal  morning  with  the  cheerfulles* 


168  REVERIhz    OF  A   BACHELOR. 

of  them  all.  For  it  would  have  been  a  capital  time  U> 
light  a  fire  in  the  little  oven  we  had  built  under  the 
wall ;  it  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  warm  our 
fingers  at  it,  and  to  roast  the  great  russets  on  the  flat 
stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.  I  had  bid  the  town- 
boys  good-bye  the  day  before  ;  my  trunk  was  all  packed 
I  was  to  go  away  —  to  school.  The  little  oven  would  go 
to  ruin  —  I  knew  it  would.  I  was  to  leave  my  home. 
I  was  to  bid  my  mother  good-bye,  and  Lilly,  and  Isabel, 
and  all  the  rest ;  and  was  to  go  away  from  them  so  far 
that  I  should  only  know  what  they  were  all  doing  —  in 
letters.  It  was  sad.  And  then  to  have  the  clouds  come 
over  on  that  morning,  and  the  winds  sigh  so  dismally  ; 
oh,  it  was  too  bad,  I  thought ! 

It  comes  back  to  me,  as  I  lie  here  this  bright  spring 
morning,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday.  I  remember  that 
the  pigeons  skulked  under  the  eaves  of  the  carriage- 
house,  and  did  not  sit,  as  they  used  to  do  in  summer, 
upon  the  ridge ;  and  the  chickens  huddled  together 
about  the  stable-doors  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  cold 
autumn.  And  in  the  garden  the  white  hollyhocks  stood 
shivering,  and  bowed  to  the  wind,  as  if  their  time  had 
some.  The  yellow  muskmelons  showed  plain  among 
'he  frost-bitten  vines,  and  looked  cold  and  uncomfort 
able. 

Then   they  were   all   so   kind  in-doors !     The 


THE  MORNING  159 

made  such  nice  things  for  my  breakfast,  because 
little  master  was  going ;  Lilly  would  give  me  her  seat  by 
the  fire,  and  would  put  her  lump  of  sugar  in  my  cup  ; 
and  my  mother  looked  so  smiling  and  so  tenderly,  that 
I  thought  I  loved  her  more  than  I  ever  did  before. 
Little  Ben  was  so  gay  too  ;  and  wanted  me  to  take  his 
jackknife,  if  I  wished  it,  —  though  he  knew  that  I  had 
a  bran  new  one  in  my  trunk.  The  old  nurse  slipped  a 
little  purse  into  my  hand,  tied  up  with  a  green  ribbon, — 
with  money  in  it,  —  and  told  me  not  to  show  it  to  Beu 
or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a  visit,  would 
come  to  stand  by  my  chair  when  my  mother  was  talking 
to  me,  and  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  look  up  into  my 
tace ;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word.  I  thought  it  was 
/ery  odd ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem  odd  to  me  that  I 
jould  say  nothing  to  her.  I  dare  say  we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said  the  coach 
had  come ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  out  of  the  window 
we  saw  it,  —  a  bright  yellow  coach,  with  four  whitg 
horses,  and  bandboxes  all  over  the  top,  with  a  great 
pile  of  trunks  behind.  Ben  said  it  was  a  grand  coach, 
and  that  he  should  like  a  ride  in  it ;  and  the  old  nurse 
came  to  the  door,  and  said  I  should  have  a  capita 
time ;  but  somehow  I  doubted  if  the  nurse  was  talking 
•lonestly.  I  believe  she  gave  me  an  honest  kiss  though 
—  and  such  a  hug ! 


160  REVERIES  OF  A    BACHELOR, 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.  Tom  told  me 
to  De  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Trojan  ;  but  I  was  not 
thinking  about  study  then.  There  was  a  tall  boy  in 
the  coach,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  have  him  see  me  cry ; 
so  I  did  n't  at  first  But  I  remember,  as  I  looked  back 
and  saw  little  Isabel  run  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
street  to  see  the  coach  go  off,  and  the  curls  floatin 
behind  her  as  the  wind  freshened,  I  felt  my  heart  leap 
ng  into  my  throat,  and  the  water  coming  into  my  eyes, — 
and  how  just  then  I  caught  sight  of  the  tall  boy  glanc 
ing  at  me,  —  and  how  I  tried  to  turn  it  off  by  looking 
to  see  if  I  could  button  up  my  great-coat  a  great  deal 
lower  down  than  the  button-holes  went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  coach- 
window,  and  looked  back  as  the  little  figure  of  Isabel 
faded,  and  then  the  house,  and  the  trees;  and  the 
tears  did  come  ;  and  I  smuggled  my  handkerchief  out 
side  without  turning,  so  that  I  could  wipe  my  eyes 
before  the  tall  boy  should  see  me.  They  say  that 
these  shadows  of  morning  fade  as  the  sun  brightens 
into  noonday  ;  but  they  are  very  dark  shadows  for  all 
that! 

Let  the  father  or  the  mother  think  long  before  they 
send  away  their  boy,  —  before  they  break  the  homo 
ties  that  make  a  web  of  infinite  fineness  and  soft  silken 
uieshes  around  his  heart,  and  toss  him  aloof  into  the 
Voy-world,  where  be  must  struggle  up,  amid  bickerings 


THE   MORNING.  161 

aiid  quarrels,  into  his  age  of  youth !  There  are  boys 
indeed  with  little  fineness  in  the  texture  of  their  hearts, 
and  with  little  delicacy  of  soul,  to  whom  the  school  in 
a  distant  village  is  but  a  vacation  from  home,  and  with 
whom  a  return  revives  all  those  grosser  affections  which 
alone  existed  before  ;  just  as  there  are  plants  which  will 
bear  all  exposure  without  the  wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will 
return  to  the  hot-house  liie  as  strong  and  as  hopeful  as 
ever.  But  there  are  others,  to  whom  the  severance 
from  the  prattle  of  sisters,  the  indulgent  fondness  of  a 
mother,  and  the  unseen  influences  of  the  home  altar, 
gives  a  shock  that  lasts  forever ;  it  is  wrenching  with 
cruel  hand  what  will  bear  but  little  roughness ;  and  the 
sobs  with  which  the  adieus  are  said  are  sobs  that  may 
come  back  in  the  after-years  strong  and  steady  and 
terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns  to  sob  early  ! 
Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if  you  will ;  talk  as  you  will 
of  the  fearlessness  and  strength  of  the  boy's  heart,  — 
yet  there  belong  to  many  tenderly  strung  chords  of  affec 
tion  which  give  forth  low  and  gentle  music  that  con- 
Boles  and  ripens  the  ear  for  all  the  harmonies  of  life. 
These  chords  a  little  rude  and  unnatural  tension  will 
break,  and  break  forever.  Watch  your  boy  then,  if  so 
be  he  will  bear  the  strain  ;  try  his  nature  if  it  be  rude  or 
lelicate  ;  and  if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do  not,  as  you 
<alue  your  peace  and  his,  bre\jd  a  harsh  youth-spirit  }c 


162  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

him  that  shall  take  pride  in  subjugating  and  forgetting 
the  delicacy  and  richness  of  his  finer  affections ! 

1  see   now,  looking  into  the  past,  the  troops  of 

boys  who  were  scattered  in  the  great  play-ground  as 
the  coach  drove  up  at  night.     The  school  was  in  a  tall, 
stately  building,  with  a  high  cupola  on  the  top,  where 
thought  I  would  like  to  go  up.     The  schoolmaster,  the 
told  me  at  home,  was  kind  ;  he  said  he  hoped  I  woul 
be  a  good  boy,  and  patted  me  on  the  head  ;  but  he  did 
not  pat  me   as   my  mother  used  to  do.      Then  there 
was  a  woman  whom  they  called  the  Matron,  who  had 
a  great  many  ribbons  in  her  cap,  and  who  shook  my 
hand,  —  but  so  stiffly,  that  I  did  n't  dare  to  look  up  ii 
her  face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school-room,  which 
was  in  the  basement,  and  the  walls  were  all  mouldy, 
I  remember ;  and  when  we  passed  a  certain  door,  he 
said  —  there  was  the  dungeon  ;  —  how  I  felt !  I  hated 
that  boy  ;  but  I  believe  he  is  dead  now.  Then  the 
matron  took  me  up  to  my  room,  —  a  little  corner-room, 
with  two  beds  and  two  windows,  and  a  red  table,  and 
closet;  and  my  chum  was  about  my  size,  and  wort  a 
queer  roundabout  jacket  with  big  bell  buttons ;  and  he 
called  the  schoolmaster  "  Old  Crikey,"  and  kept  me 
nwake  half  the  night,  telling  me  how  he  whipped  the 
icholars,  and  how  they  played  tricks  upon  him.  ) 
hought  my  chum  was  a  very  uncommon  boy. 


THE  MORNING.  163 

For  a  day  or  two  the  lessons  were  easy,  and  it  was 
sport  to  play  with  so  many  "  fellows."  But  soon  I  be 
gan  to  feel  lonely  at  night,  after  I  had  gone  to  bed.  I 
used  to  wish  I  could  have  my  mother  come  and  kiss  me 
after  school,  too,  I  wished  1  could  step  in  and  tell  Isabel 
how  bravely  I  had  got  my  lessons.  When  I  told  niy 
chum  this,  he  laughed  at  me,  and  said  that  was  no  place 
for  "homesick,  white-livered  chaps."  I  wondered  if  my 
chum  had  any  mother. 

We  had  spending-money  once  a  week,  with  which  we 
used  to  go  down  to  the  village  store,  and  club  our  funds 
together  to  make  great  pitchers  of  lemonade.  Some 
boys  would  have  money  besides,  though  it  was  against 
the  rules ;  and  one,  I  recollect,  showed  us  a  five-dollar 
bill  in  his  wallet,  and  we  all  thought  he  must  be  very 
rich. 

We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village  church  on 
Sundays.  There  were  two  long  benches  in  the  galleries, 
reaching  down  the  sides  of  the  meeting-house,  and  on 
these  we  sat.  At  the  first  I  was  among  the  smallest 
boys,  and  took  a  place  close  to  the  wall  against  the  pul 
pit  ;  but  afterward,  as  I  grew  bigger,  I  was  promoted  to 
the  lower  end  of  the  first  bench.  This  I  never  liked, 
because  it  was  close  by  one  of  the  ushers,  and  because 
it  brought  me  next  to  some  countrywomen  who  worr 
stiff  bonnets,  and  ate  fennel,  and  sung  with  the  choir 
But  ther°  was  a  little  black-eyed  girl,  who  sat  over  be 


164  REVERIES    OF  A  BACHELOR. 

nind  the  choir,  that  I  thought  handsome.  1  used  to  l«>ok 
at  her  very  often,  but  was  careful  she  should  never  catch 
my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  corner-pew,  who 
was  pretty,  and  who  wore  a  hat  in  the  winter  trimmed 
with  fur.  Half  the  boys  in  the  school  said  they  would 
marry  her  some  day  or  other.  One's  name  was  Jane 
and  that  of  the  other  Sophia ;  which  we  thought  pretty 
names,  and  cut  them  on  the  ice  in  skating-time.  But  J 
did  n't  think  either  of  them  so  pretty  as  Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me.  I  bore  it  bravely  in 
the  school ;  but  afterward,  at  night,  when  my  chum  was 
asleep,  I  sobbed  bitterly  as  I  thought  of  Isabel,  and  Ben, 
and  my  mother,  and  how  much  they  loved  me ;  and  lay 
ing  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  sobbed  myself  to  sleep.  In 
the  morning  I  was  calm  enough  :  it  was  another  of  the 
heart-ties  broken,  though  I  did  not  know  it  then.  li 
lessened  the  old  attachment  to  home,  because  that  home 
could  neither  protect  me  nor  soothe  me  with  its  sympa 
thies  Memory,  indeed,  freshened  and  grew  strong,  but 
strong  in  bitterness  and  in  regrets.  The  boy  whose  love 
you  cannot  feed  by  daily  nourishment  will  find  pride 
self-indulgence,  and  an  iron  purpose  coming  in  to  fur 
nish  other  supply  for  the  soul  that  is  in  him.  If  he  can 
not  shoot  his  branches  into  the  sunshine,  he  will  become 
acclimated  to  the  shadow,  and  indifferent  to  such  stray 
gleams  of  sunshine  as  his  fortune  may  vouchsafe. 


MORNING.  16 


Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten  between  the 
school  and  the  village  boys  ;  but  they  usually  passed  off 
with  such  loud  and  harmless  explosions  as  belong  to  the 
wars  of  our  small  politicians.  The  village  champion? 
were  a  hatter's  apprentice  and  a  thick-set  fellow  who 
worked  in  a  tannery.  We  prided  ourselves  especially 
on  one  stout  boy,  who  wore  a  sailor's  monkey-jacket.  ] 
cannot  but  think  how  jaunty  that  stout  boy  looked  in 
that  jacket,  and  what  an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to  his 
countenance  !  It  certainly  did  occur  to  me  to  compare 
him  with  "William  Wallace,  (Miss  Porter's  William  Wal 
lace,)  and  I  thought  how  I  would  have  liked  to  have 
seen  a  tussle  between  them.  Of  course  we,  who  were 
small  boys,  limited  ourselves  to  indignant  remarks,  and 
thought  "  we  should  like  to  see  them  do  it  "  ;  and  pre 
pared  clubs  from  the  wood-shed,  after  a  model  suggested 
by  a  New-  York  boy  who  had  seen  the  clubs  of  the  po 
licemen. 

There  was  one  scholar  —  poor  Leslie  —  who  had 
friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and  who  occasionally 
received  letters  bearing  a  foreign  postmark.  What  an 
extraordinary  boy  that  was  ;  what  astonishing  letters 
what  extraordinary  parents!  I  wondered  if  I  should 
ever  receive  a  letter  from  "foreign  parts."  I  wondered 
if  I  should  ever  write  one;  —  but  this  was  too  much. 
too  absurd  !  As  if  I,  Paul,  wearing  a  blue  jacket  with 
gilt  buttons,  and  number-four  boots,  should  ever  visit 


REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

those  countries  spoken  of  in  the  geographies  and  b) 
learned  travellers  !  No,  no  ;  this  was  too  extravagant ; 
but  I  knew  what  I  would  do  if  I  lived  to  come  of  age,  — 
and  I  vowed  that  I  would  —  I  would  go  to  New  York ! 

Number  Seven  was  the  hospital,  and  forbidden  ground; 
we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of  horror  of  Number  Seven.  A 
boy  died  there  once,  and  oh  !  how  he  moaned  ;  and  what 
a  time  there  was  when  the  father  carne  ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton.  who  wore  lin 
sey  gray,  made  a  dam  across  a  little  brook  by  the  school 
and  whittled  out  a  saw-mill  that  actually  sawed :  he  had 
genius.  I  expected  to  see  him  before  now  at  the  head 
of  American  mechanics,  but  I  learn  with  pain  that  he  i? 
keeping  a  grocery-store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  exhibitions,  to 
which  all  the  townspeople  came,  and  among  them  the 
black-eyed  Jane,  and  the  pretty  Sophia  with  fur  around 
her  hat.  My  great  triumph  was  when  I  had  the  part 
of  one  of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening  before  I  left 
the  school.  How  I  did  look !  I  had  a  moustache  put 
on  with  burnt  cork,  and  whiskers  very  bushy  indeed ; 
and  T  had  the  militia  coat  of  an  ensign  in  the  town 
company,  with  the  skirts  pinned  up  ;  and  a  short  sword, 
very  dull  and  crooked,  which  belonged  to  an  old  gentle 
man  who  was  said  to  have  got  it  from  some  privateer's- 
man,  who  was  said  to  have  taken  it  from  some  great 
British  admiral  in  the  old  wars  ;  and  the  way  T  carriec1 


THE   MORN IX G.  167 

that  sword  upon  the  platform,  and  the  way  I  jerked  it 
out  when  it  came  to  my  turn  to  say,  "  Battle  !  battle  !  — 
then  death  to  the  armed,  and  chains  for  the  defence 
less  !  "  —  was  tremendous. 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats,  —  black  felt, 
with  turkey  feathers, —  we  took  our  place  upon  the  top 
of  the  coach  to  leave  the  school.  The  head  master,  in 
green  spectacles,  came  out  to  shake  hands  with  us,  —  a 
very  awful  shaking  of  hands.  Poor  gentleman !  he  is 
in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "  for  the  old  school,"  as 
the  coach  started ;  and  upon  the  top  of  the  hill  that 
overlooks  the  village  we  gave  another  round,  and  still 
another  for  the  crabbed  old  fellow  whose  apples  we  had 
so  often  stolen.  I  wonder  if  old  Bulkeley  is  living  yet  ? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine-trees,  I  recalled  the  im 
age  of  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  of  the  other  little  girl 
in  the  corner-pew,  and  thought  how  I  would  come  back 
after  the  college-days  were  over,  —  a  man,  with  a  beaver 
hat  and  a  cane,  and  with  a  splendid  barouche ;  and  how 
I  would  take  the  best  chamber  at  the  inn,  and  astonish 
the  old  schoolmaster  by  giving  him  a  familiar  tap  on  the 
shoulder ;  and  how  I  would  be  the  admiration  and  the 
wonder  of  the  pretty  girl  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat!  Alas! 
bow  our  thoughts  outrun  our  deeds. 

For  long  —  long  years  I  saw  no  more  of  my  old 
ichool ;  and  when  at  length  the  new  view  came,  great 


Ifi8  AEVERIES  OP  A  BACHELOR. 

changes,  crashing  like  tornadoes,  had  swept  over  my 
path.  I  thought  no  more  of  startling  the  villagers  or 
astonishing  the  black-eyed  girl.  No.  no  !  I  was  content 
to  slip  quietly  through  the  little  town,  with  only  a  tear 
or  two,  as  I  recalled  the  dead  ones  and  mused  upon  the 
emptiness  of  life. 

The  Sea. 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs  and  cares  van 
ishes  into  the  proud  stateliness  of  youth.  The  ambition 
and  the  rivalries  of  the  college-life,  its  first  boastful  im 
portance  as  knowledge  begins  to  dawn  on  the  wakened 
mind,  and  the  ripe  and  enviable  complacency  of  its 
senior  dignity,  —  all  scud  over  my  memory  like  this 
morning  breeze  along  the  meadows,  and  like  that,  too, 
bear  upon  their  wing  a  dullness  as  of  distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood  ;  Lilly  is  living  in 
a  distant  home ;  and  Isabel  is  just  blooming  into  that 
sweet  age  where  womanly  dignity  waits  her  beauty,  — 
an  age  that  sorely  puzzles  one  who  has  grown  up  beside 
her,  making  him  slow  of  tongue,  but  very  quick  of  heart! 

As  for  the  rest  —  let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands  have 
gone  down  under  the  horizon,  like  the  city  steeples,  as 
you  lose  yourself  in  the  calm  of  the  country,  or  like 
the  great  thoughts  of  genius,  as  you  slip  from  the 
yf  poets  into  your  own  quiet 


THE   MORX1XG.  169 

Hie  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left ;  there  is  nothing 
but  water  before,  and  only  water  behind.  Above  me 
are  sailing  clouds,  or  the  blue  vault,  which  we  call,  with 
childish  license,  heaven.  The  sails  white  and  full, 
like  helping  friends,  are  pushing  me  on ;  and  night  and 
day  are  distent  with  the  winds  which  come  and  go  — 
none  know  whence,  and  none  know  whither.  A  land- 
bird  flutters  aloft,  weary  with  long  flying,  and  lost  in  a 
world  where  are  no  forests  but  the  careening  masts, 
and  no  foliage  but  the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  a  while 
to  the  smooth  spars,  still  urged  by  some  homeward 
yearning ;  it  bears  off  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  and  sinks 
and  rises  over  the  angry  waters,  until  its  strength  is 
gone,  and  the  blue  waves  gather  the  poor  flutterer  to 
their  cold  and  glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me  but  the 
waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of  dolphins ;  all  the  noon, 
unless  some  white  sail,  like  a  ghost,  stalks  the  horizon, 
there  is  still  nothing  but  the  rolling  seas  ;  all  the  even 
ing,  alter  the  sun  has  grown  big  and  sunk  under  the 
water-line,  and  the  moon  risen  white  and  cold  to  glim 
mer  across  the  tops  of  the  surging  ocean,  there  is  noth 
ing  but  the  sea  and  the  sky  to  lead  off*  thought,  or  to 
crush  it  with  their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight  upon  the 
aflrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far  back  and  break,  — 
*nd  gather  nearer,  and  break  louder,  —  and  gather 


170  REVERIES  Ob  A   BAuHL'LOR. 

igain,  and  roll  down  swift  and  terrible  under  the  creak 
ing  ship,  and  heave  it  up  lightly  upon  their  swelling 
surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to  their  seething  and  yeasty 
cradle,  like  an  infant  in  the  swaying  arms  of  a  mother, 
or  like  a  shadowy  memory  upon  the  billows  of  manly 
thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of  ocean ;  life 
lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads  out  as  level  as  the 
sea.  Regrets  and  broken  resolutions  chase  over  the 
soul  like  swift-winged  night-birds ;  and  all  the  unsteady 
heights  and  the  wastes  of  action  lift  up  distinct  and 
clear  from  the  uneasy  but  limpid  depths  of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon,  sympathies 
are  narrowed  down  ;  they  cannot  range,  as  upon  the 
land,  over  a  thousand  objects.  You  are  strangely  at 
tracted  toward  some  frail  girl,  whose  pallor  has  now 
given  place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the  sea-life.  You  listen 
eagerly  to  the  chance-snatches  of  a  song  from  below  in 
the  long  morning  watch.  You  love  to  see  her  small 
feet  tottering  on  the  unsteady  deck ;  and  you  love 
greatly  to  aid  her  steps,  and  feel  her  weight  upon  your 
arm,  as  the  ship  lurches  to  a  heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly  upon  the 
ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive  them ;  your  morning 
salutation  is  like  a  welcome  after  absence  upon  the 
shore,  and  each  "  good-night "  has  the  depth  and  ful- 
oess  of  a  land  "  farewell."  And  beauty  grows  upon 


THE  MORNING.  171 

the  ocean;  you  cannot  certainly  say  that  the  face  of 
(.he  fair  girl-voyager  is  prettier  than  that  of  Isabel ;  oh. 
no !  but  you  are  certain  that  you  cast  innocent  and 
honest  glances  upon  her,  as  you  steady  her  walk  upon 
the  deck,  far  oftener  than  at  first ;  and  ocean  life  and 
sympathy  makes  her  kind ;  she  does  not  resent  your 
rudeness  one  half  so  stoutly  as  she  might  upon  the 
shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening  —  pleading  first 
witli  the  mother,  and,  standing  beside  you,  —  her  white 
hand  not  very  far  from  yours  upon  the  rail,  —  look  down 
where  the  black  ship  flings  off  with  each  plunge  whole 
garlands  of  emeralds ;  or  she  will  look  up  (thinking 
perhaps  you  are  looking  the  same  way)  into  the  skies 
in  search  of  some  stars  —  which  were  her  neighbors  at 
home.  And  bits  of  old  tales  will  come  up  as  if  they 
rode  upon  the  ocean  quietude  ;  and  fragments  of  half 
forgotten  poems,  tremulously  uttered,  either  by  reason 
of  the  rolling  of  the  ship,  or  some  accidental  touch  of 
khat  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  when  fear  will  make  strange 
and  holy  companionship  ;  and  even  here  my  memory 
shifts  swiftly  and  suddenly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers  are 

Clustered,  trembling,  below.  Everj  plank  shakes  ;  and 
ihe  oak  ribs  groan  as  if  they  suffered  with  their  toil 
Vhe  hands  are  all  aloft ;  the  captain  is  forward  shouting 


172  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

to  the  mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am  clinging  to  ;>ne 
of  the  stanchions  by  the  binnacle.  The  ship  is  pitch 
ing  madly,  and  the  waves  are  toppling  up  sometimes  as 
high  as  the  yard-arm,  and  then  dipping  away  with  a 
whirl  under  our  keel,  that  makes  every  timber  in  the 
vessel  quiver.  The  thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand 
cannons  ;  and  at  the  moment  the  sky  is  cleft  with  a 
stream  of  fire  that  glares  over  the  tops  of  the  waves, 
and  glistens  on  the  wet  decks  and  the  spars, —  lighting 
up  all  so  plain,  that  I  can  see  the  men's  faces  in  the 
main-top,  and  catch  glimpses  of  the  reefers  on  the 
yard-arm,  clinging  like  death;  —  then  all  is  horrible 
darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvas  ;  the  waves 
crash  against  the  weather-bow  like  mountains ;  the  wind 
howls  through  the  rigging,  or,  as  a  gasket  gives  way, 
the  sail,  bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  a  crack  of  a 
musket.  I  hear  the  captain  in  the  lulls  screaming  out 
orders;  and  the  mate  in  the  rigging  screaming  them 
over,  until  the  lightning  comes,  and  the  thunder,  dead 
ening  their  voices  as  if  they  were  chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes  I  see  a  hand  upon  the  yard-arm 
lose  his  foothold  as  the  ship  gives  a  plunge  ;  but  his 
arms  are  clenched  around  the  spar.  Before  I  can  sea 
any  more,  the  blackness  comes,  and  the  thunder,  with 
a  crash  that  half  deafens  me.  I  think  I  hear  a  low 
:ry,  as  the  mutterings  die  away  in  the  distance  ;  and  at 


THE  MORNING.  178 

the  next  flash  of  lightning,  which  comes  in  an  instant,  ] 
see  upon  the  top  of  one  of  the  waves  alongside  the 
poor  reefer  who  has  fallen.  The  lightning  glares  upon 
his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running  rigging 
as  he  fell  ;  and  1  see  it  slipping  off  the  coil  upon  the 
deck.  I  shout  madly,  "  Man  overboard  !  "  and  catch 
the  rope,  when  I  can  see  nothing  again.  The  sea  is 
too  high,  and  the  man  too  heavy  for  me.  I  shout,  and 
shout,  and  shout,  and  feel  the  perspiration  starting  in 
great  beads  from  my  forehead  as  the  line  slips  through 
my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft  and  takes  hold 
with  me  ;  and  the  cook  comes  as  the  coil  is  nearly  spent, 
and  we  pull  together  upon  him.  It  is  desperate  work 
for  the  sailor ;  for  the  ship  is  drifting  at  a  prodigious 
rate  ;  but  he  clings  like  a  dying  man. 

By-and-by  at  a  flash  we  see  him  on  a  crest  two  oars' 
lengths  away  from  the  vessel. 

a  Hold  on,  my  man  !  "  shouts  the  captain. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quick  !  "  says  the  poor  fellow 
:ud  he  goes  down  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  We  pul 
the  harder,  and  the  captain  keeps  calling  to  him  to  keep 
up  courage  and  hold  strong.  But  in  the  hush  we  can 
near  him  say,  —  "I  can't  hold  out  much  longer ;  I  'm 
most  gone  ! " 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where  we  car 


174  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting  for  a  good  lift  of 
the  sea  to  bring  him  up,  when  the  poor  fellow  groana 
out,  —  "  It 's  of  no  use  —  I  can't  —  good-bye  !  "  And  a 
wave  tosses  the  end  of  the  rope  clean  upon  the  bul 
warks. 

At  the  next  flash  I  see  him  going  down  under  the 
water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at  heart ;  and 
wedging  myself  into  my  narrow  berth,  I  try  to  sleep. 
But  the  thunder  and  the  tossing  of  the  ship,  and  the 
face  of  the  drowning  man  as  he  said  good-bye,  peer 
ing  at  me  from  every  corner,  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

Afterward  come  quiet  seas,  over  which  we  boom 
along,  leaving  in  our  track  at  night  a  broad  path  of 
phosphorescent  splendor.  The  sailors  bustle  around  the 
decks  as  if  they  had  lost  no  comrade ;  and  the  voyagers, 
losing  the  pallor  of  fear,  look  out  earnestly  for  the  land. 

At  length  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted  fields  of 
Britain ;  and  in  a  day  more  the  bright  face,  looking  out 
beside  me,  sparkles  at  sight  of  the  sweet  cottages  which 
lie  along  the  green  Essex  shores.  Broad-saned  yachts, 
.ooking  strangely  yet  beautifully,  glide  upon  the  waters 
of  the  Thames  like  swans  ;  black,  square-rigged  colliers 
from  the  Tyne  lie  grouped  in  sooty  cohorts ;  and  heavy, 
throe-decked  Jndiamen  —  of  which  I  had  read  in  story- 
hooks  —  drift  slowly  down  with  the  tide.  Dingy  steam 
ers  with  white  pipes  and  with  red  pipes,  whiz  past  us  t« 


THE  MORNING.  176 

flie  sea ;  and  now  my  eye  rests  on  the  groat  palace  of 
Greenwich ;  I  see  the  wooden-legged  pensioners  smok 
Ing  under  the  palace-walls,  and  above  them  upon  the 
hill  —  as  Heaven  is  true —  that  old  fabulous  Greenwich, 
the  great  centre  of  school-boy  Longitude. 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky  smoke  heaves 
up  the  vast  dome  of  St  Paul's,  and  the  tall  Column  of 
the  Fire,  and  the  white  turrets  of  London  Tower.  Our 
ship  glides  through  the  massive  dock -gates,  and  is 
moored  amid  the  forest  of  masts  which  bears  golden 
fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night  I  sleep  far  away  from  "  the  old  school," 
and  far  away  from  the  valley  of  Hillfarm.  Long  and  late 
I  toss  upon  my  bed,  with  sweet  visions  in  my  mind  of 
London  Bridge,  and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane  Shore,  and 
Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal,  and  King  Jamie.  And  when 
at  length  I  fall  asleep,  my  dreams  are  very  pleasant,  but 
they  carry  me  across  the  ocean,  away  from  the  ship, 
away  from  London,  away  even  from  the  fair  voyager,  — 
*x>  the  old  oaks,  and  to  the  brooks,  and  —  to  thy  side, 
sweet  Isabel ! 


The  Father-Land. 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  easy  deshabilU 
if  the  ocean  life  and  the  prim  attire  and  conventional 
ipirit  of  the  land  In  the  first  there  are  but  few  (x- 


176  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

please,  and  these  few  are  known,  and  they  know  us , 
upon  the  shore  there  is  a  world  to  humor,  and  a  world 
of  strangers.  In  a  brilliant  drawing-room  looking  out 
upon  the  site  of  old  Charing  Cross,  and  upon  the  one- 
armed  Nelson  standing  aloft  at  his  coil  of  rope,  I  take 
leave  of  the  fair  voyager  of  the  sea.  Her  white  negligt 
has  given  place  to  silks  ;  and  the  simple,  careless  coiffe 
i>f  the  ocean  is  replaced  by  the  rich  dressing  of  a  mo 
diste.  Yet  her  face  has  the  same  bloom  upon  it ;  and 
her  eye  sparkles,  as  it  seems  to  me.  with  a  higher  pride ; 
and  her  little  hand  has,  I  think,  a  tremulous  quiver  in 
it  (I  am  sure  my  own  has)  as  I  bid  her  adieu,  and  take 
up  the  trail  of  my  wanderings  into  the  heart  of  Eng 
land. 

Abuse  her  as  we  will,  —  pity  her  starving  peasantry 
as  we  may,  —  smile  at  her  court  pageantry  as  much  as 
we  like,  — old  England  is  dear  old  England  still.  Her 
cottage- homes,  her  green  fields,  her  castles,  her  blazing 
firesides,  her  church-spires  are  as  old  as  song ;  and  by 
song  and  story  we  inherit  them  in  our  hearts.  This  joy 
ous  boast  was,  I  remember,  upon  my  lip  as  I  first  trod 
ijion  the  rich  meadow  of  Runnymede,  and  recalled  that 
Great  Charter  wrested  from  the  king,  which  made 
the  first  stepping-stone  toward  the  bounties  of  our  west- 
srn  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  the  western 
Saxon  as  he  strolls  first  along  the  green  by-lanes  of 


THE  MORNING.  177 

England,  and  scents  the  hawthorn  in  its  April  bluom, 
and  lingers  at  some  quaint  stile  to  watch  the  rooks 
wheeling  and  cawing  around  some  lofty  elm-tops,  and 
traces  the  carved  gables  of  some  old  country  mansion 
that  lies  in  their  shadow,  and  hums  some  fragment  of 
charming  English  poesy  that  seems  made  for  the  scene 
This  is  not  sight-seeing  nor  travel ;  it  is  dreaming  sweet 
dreams  that  are  fed  with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream  by  a  swift 
step ;  and,  winding  and  rising  between  the  blooming 
hedgerows,  I  come  presently  to  the  sight  of  some  sweet 
valley  below  me,  where  a  thatched  hamlet  lies  sleeping 
in  the  April  sun  as  quietly  as  the  dead  lie  in  history 
no  sound  reaches  me  save  the  occasional  clink  of  the 
smith's  hammer,  or  the  hedgeman's  billhook,  or  the 
ploughman's  "  ho-tup !  "  from  the  hills.  At  evening,  lis 
tening  to  the  nightingale,  I  stroll  wearily  into  some  close- 
nestled  village  that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  rolling 
height.  It  is  far  away  from  the  great  lines  of  travel ; 
and  the  children  stop  their  play  to  have  a  look  at  me. 
%nd  the  rosy-faced  girls  peep  from  behind  half-opened 
doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on  either  side  of 
the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon,  — 
which  guardian  birds  some  native  Dick  Tinto  has  pict 
ured  upon  the  swinging  sign-board  at  the  corner.  The 
hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace  me,  and  treats  me  like 

8» 


17b  RETER1ES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

a  prince  in  disguise.  She  shows  me  through  the  tap 
room  into  a  little  parlor  with  white  curtains,  and  with 
neatly  framed  prints  of  the  old  patriarchs.  Here,  alone, 
beside  a  brisk  fire  kindled  with  furze,  I  watch  the  white 
flame  leaping  playfully  through  the  black  lumps  of  coal, 
and  enjoy  the  best  fare  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon. 
If  too  late  or  too  early  for  her  garden-stock,  the  hostess 
bethinks  herself  of  some  small  pot  of  jelly  in  an  out- 
of-the-way  cupboard  of  the  house,  and  setting  it  tempt 
ingly  in  her  prettiest  dish,  she  coyly  slips  it  upon  the 
white  cloth,  with  a  modest  regret  that  it  is  no  better,  and 
a  little  evident  satisfaction  that  it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing  fire,  as  quiet 
as  the  cat  that  has  come  in  to  bear  me  company  ;  and  at 
bedtime  I  find  sheets  as  fresh  as  the  air  of  the  moun 
tains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later,  I  am  walk 
ing  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs.  It  is  near  nightfall, 
and  the  fir-tops  are  swaying,  and  sighing  hoarsely  in  the 
cool  wind  of  the  Northern  Highlands.  There  is  none 
of  the  smiling  landscape  of  England  about  me ;  and 
the  crags  of  Edinburgh  and  Castle  Stirling,  and  sweet 
Perth,  in  its  silver  valley,  are  far  to  the  southward.  The 
iarches  of  Athol  and  Bruar  Water,  and  that  highland 
gem,  Dunkeld,  are  passed.  I  am  tired  with  a  morn 
ing's  tramp  over  Culloden  Moor ;  and  from  the  edge  of 
toe  wood  there  stretch  before  me,  in  the  cool  gray  twi 


THE   MORNING.  ITS 

light,  broad  fields  of  heather.  In  the  middle  there  rise 
against  the  night-sky  the  turrets  of  a  castle  ;  it  is  Castlt 
Cavvdor,  where  King  Duncan  was  murdered  by  Mac 
beth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary  step  ;  and 
emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound  over  the  springy 
heather.  In  an  hour  I  clamber  a  broken  wall,  and  come 
under  the  frowning  shadows  of  the  castle.  The  ivy 
clambers  up  here  and  there,  and  shakes  its  uncroppecl 
branches  and  its  dried  berries  over  the  heavy  portal.  7. 
cross  the  moat,  and  my  step  makes  the  chains  of  the 
drawbridge  rattle.  All  is  kept  in  the  old  state ;  only 
in  lieu  of  the  warder's  horn  I  pull  at  the  warder's  bell. 
The  echoes  ring  and  die  in  the  stone  courts ;  but  there 
is  no  one  astir,  nor  is  there  a  light  at  any  of  the  castle- 
windows.  I  ring  again  and  the  echoes  come  and  blend 
with  the  rising  night-wind  that  sighs  around  the  turrets 
us  they  sighed  that  night  of  murder.  I  fancy  —  it  must 
oe  a  fancy  —  that  I  hear  an  owl  scream  ;  I  am  sure  that 
[  hear  the  crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the  moat ;  a  little 
dark  water  lies  in  the  bottom.  The  walls  rise  from  it 
gray  and  stern  in  the  deepening  shadows.  I  hum 
chance  passages  of  Macbeth,  listening  for  the  echoes, — 
echoes  from  the  wall,  and  echoes  from  that  far  awaj 
time  when  I  stole  the  first  reading  of  the  tragic  story. 


180  REVERIES    OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended  ? 
Ay. 

Hark ! " 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back  —  "  hark ! "  And  at 
dead  of  night,  in  the  thatched  cottage  under  the  castle- 
walls,  where  a  dark-faced  Gaelic  women  in  plaid  turban 
is  my  hostess,  I  wake,  startled  by  the  wind,  and  my 
trembling  lips  say  involuntarily  —  "  hark  !  " 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the  sweet  county 
of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like  emerald  ;  its  threads  of 
waters,  stretched  over  the  fields  by  their  provident  hus 
bandry,  glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of  summer  like  skeins 
of  silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of  the  true  British  stamp, 
is  my  host.  On  market-days  he  rides  over  to  the  old 
town  of  Totness  in  a  trim,  black  farmer's  cart ;  and  he 
wears  glossy  topped  boots  and  a  broad-brimmed  white 
hat.  I  take  a  vast  deal  of  pleasure  in  listening  to  his 
honest,  straightforward  talk  about  the  improvements  of 
the  day  and  the  state  of  the  nation.  I  sometimes  get 
upon  one  of  his  nags,  and  ride  off  with  him  over  his 
fields,  or  visit  the  homes  of  the  laborers,  which  show 
their  gray  roofs  in  every  charming  nook  of  the  land 
scape.  At  the  parish-church  I  doze;  against  the  higb 
Tew-backs  as  I  listen  to  the  seesaw  tones  of  the  drawl 


THE  MORNING.  181 

ing  curate  ;  and  in  my  half-wakeful  moments  the  with 
ered  holly-sprigs  (not  removed  since  Easter)  grow  upou 
my  vision  into  Christmas  boughs,  and  preach  sermons 
to  me  of  the  days  of  old. 

Sometimes  I  wander  far  over  the  hills  into  a  neigh 
boring  park,  and  spend  hours  on  hours  under  the  sturdy 
oaks,  watching  the  sleek  fallow  deer  gazing  at  me  with 
their  soft,  liquid  eyes.  The  squirrels,  too,  play  above 
me  with  their  daring  leaps,  utterly  careless  of  my  pres 
ence,  and  the  pheasants  whir  away  from  my  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls,  —  I  remember  it  very 
well,  —  when  I  was  idling  along,  thinking  of  the  broad 
reach  of  water  that  lay  between  me  and  that  old  forest 
home,  and  beating  off  the  daisy  heads  with  my  cane,  I 
heard  the  tramp  of  horses  coming  up  one  of  the  forest 
avenues.  The  sound  was  unusual,  for  the  family,  I  had 
been  told,  was  still  in  town,  and  no  right  of  way  lay 
through  the  park.  There  they  were,  however ;  —  I  was 
sure  it  must  be  the  family,  from  the  careless  way  in 
which  they  came  sauntering  up. 

First  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came  bounding 
toward  me,  gazed  a  moment,  and  turned  to  watch  the 
approach  of  the  little  cavalcade.  Next  was  an  elderly 
gentleman  mounted  upon  a  spirited  hunter,  attended  by 
a  boy  of  some  dozen  years,  who  managed  his  pony  with 
i  grace  that  is  a  part  of  the  English  boy's  education 
Then  followed  two  older  lads,  and  a  travelling  phaeton 


J82  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

in  which  sat  a  couple  of  elderly  ladies.  But  what  most 
''rew  my  attention  was  a  girlish  figure  that  rode  beyond 
the  carriage  upon  a  sleek  -  limbed  gray.  There  was 
something  in  the  easy  grace  of  her  attitude  and  the  rich 
glow  that  lit  up  her  face  — heightened,  as  it  was,  by  the 
little  black  riding-cap  relieved  with  a  single  flowing 
plume  —  that  kept  my  eye.  It  was  strange,  but  1 
thought  that  I  had  seen  such  a  figure  before,  and  such 
a  face,  and  such  an  eye  ;  and  as  I  made  the  ordinary 
salutation  of  a  stranger,  and  caught  her  smile,  I  could 
have  sworn  that  it  was  she  —  my  fair  companion  of  the 
ocean.  The  truth  flashed  upon  me  in  a  moment.  She 
was  to  visit,  she  had  told  me,  a  friend  in  the  south  of 
England  ;  —  and  this  was  the  friend's  home  ;  and  one  of 
the  ladies  in  the  carriage  was  her  mother,  and  one  of 
the  lads  the  school-boy  brother  who  had  teased  her  on 
the  sea. 

I  recall  now  perfectly  her  frank  manner  as  she  un 
gloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  welcome.  I  strolled  beside 
them  to  the  steps.  Old  Devon  had  suddenly  renewed 
its  beauties  for  me.  I  had  much  to  tell  her  of  the  little 
outlying  nooks  which  my  wayward  feet  had  led  me  to ; 
and  she  —  as  much  to  ask.  My  stay  with  the  bland  old 
farmer  lengthened ;  and  two  days'  hospitalities  at  the 
Park  ran  over  into  three,  and  four.  There  was  hard 
galloping  down  those  avenues ;  and  new  strolls,  not  at 
til  lonely,  under  the  sturdy  oaks.  The  long  summe* 


THE  MORN1NU.  188 

twilight  of  England  used  to  find  a  very  happy  felloe 
lingering  on  the  garden  -  terrace,  looking  now  at  the 
rookery,  where  the  belated  birds  quarrelled  for  a  rest 
ing-place,  and  now  down  the  long  forest  vista,  gray  with 
distance,  and  closed  with  the  white  spire  of  Madbury 
church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one  —  very  fast  • 
and  it  is  not  so  easy  as  in  the  drawing-room  of  Char 
ing  Cross,  to  say  —  adieu !  But  it  is  said  —  very  sadly 
said  ;  for  God  only  knows  how  long  it  is  to  last.  And 
as  I  rode  slowly  down  toward  the  lodge  after  my  leave- 
taking,  I  turned  back  again,  and  again,  and  again.  I 
thought  I  saw  her  standing  still  upon  the  terrace,  though 
it  was  almost  dark ;  and  I  thought  —  it  could  hardly 
have  been  an  illusion  —  that  I  saw  something  white 
waving  from  her  hand. 

Her  name  —  as  if  I  could  forget  it —  was  Caroline  ; 
her  mother  called  her  Carry.  I  wondered  how  it 
would  seem  for  me  to  call  her  Carry !  I  tried  it :  it 
sounded  well.  I  tried  it  over  and  over,  until  I  came 
too  near  the  lodge.  There  I  threw  a  half-crown  to  the 
woman  who  opened  the  gate  for  me.  She  curtsied  low, 
and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  sir  !  " 

I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a  guinea  for 
it ;  and  that  night  —  whether  it  was  the  old  woman's 
oenediction  or  the  waving  scarf  upon  the  terrace,  I  do 
uot  know,  but  —  there  was  a  charm  upon  my  thought 
ind  my  hope,  as  if  an  angel  had  been  near  me. 


184  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

It  passed  away,  though,  in  my  dreams ;  for  I  dreamed 
that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of  Bella  in  an  English  park, 
and  that  she  wore  a  black  velvet  riding-cap  with  a 
plume ;  and  I  came  up  to  her  and  murmured,  —  very 
sweetly,  I  thought,  — "  Carry,  dear  Carry  !  "  and  she 
started,  looked  sadly  at  me,  and  turned  away.  I  ran 
after  her  to  kiss  her  as  I  did  when  she  sat  upon  my 
mother's  lap,  on  the  day  when  she  came  near  drowning 
I  longed  to  tell  her,  as  I  did  then,  I  do  love  you.  Bui 
she  turned  her  tearful  face  upon  me,  I  dreamed ;  and 
then  —  I  saw  no  more. 


A  Roman  Girl. 

I  REMEMBER  the  very  words,  —  •'  Non  park 

Francese,  Siffnore,  —  I  do  not  speak  French,  Signor," 
said  the  stout  lady ;  "  but  my  daughter,  perhaps,  will 
understand  you." 

And  she  called,  "Enrico  !  Enrica  !  venite,  subito  !  c'  i 
in  forestiere" 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light-brown  hair  falling 
carelessly  over  her  shoulders,  her  rich  hazel  eye  twin 
kling  and  full  of  life,  the  color  coming  and  going  upon 
her  transparent  cheek,  and  her  bosom  heaving  with  her 
quick  step.  "With  one  hand  she  put  back  the  scattered 
locks  that  had  fallen  over  her  forehead,  while  she  laid 
toe  other  gently  upon  the  arm  of  her  mother,  and 


THE   MORNING.  186 

%sked  in  that  sweet  music  of  the  south,  "Cosa  volete^ 
mamma f " 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in  many  a  day ; 
and  this  notwithstanding  I  was  in  Rome,  and  had  come 
that  very  morning  from  the  Palace  of  Borghese. 

The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and  Enrica  —  so  fair, 
so  young,  so  unlike  in  her  beauty  to  other  Italian  beau 
ties  —  was  my  landlady's  daughter.  The  house  was  one 
of  those  tall  houses  —  very,  very  old  —  which  stand 
along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso,  looking  out  upon 
the  Piazzo  di  Colonna.  The  staircases  were  very  tall 
and  dirty,  and  they  were  narrow  and  dark.  Four  flights 
of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the  corridor  where  they  lived. 
A  little  trap  was  in  the  door,  and  there  was  a  bell-rope, 
at  the  least  touch  of  which  I  was  almost  sure  to  hear 
tripping  feet  run  along  the  stone  floor  within,  and  then 
to  see  the  trap  thrown  slyly  back,  and  those  deep  hazel 
eyes  looking  out  upon  me ;  and  then  the  door  woulo 
open,  and  along 'the  corridor,  under  the  daughter's  guid 
ance,  (until  I  had  learned  the  way,)  I  passed  to  my  Ro 
man  home.  I  was  a  long  time  learning  the  way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso,  and  I  coul  1 
catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of  the  tall  column  of 
Antoninus,  and  of  a  fragment  of  the  palace  of  the  Gov 
srnor.  My  parlor,  which  was  separated  from  the  apart 
ments  of  the  family  by  a  narrow  corridor,  looked  upoc 
i  small  c«mrt  hung  around  with  balconies.  From  th* 


186  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

upper  one  a  couple  of  black-eyed  girls  are  occasionally 
looking  out,  and  they  can  almost  read  the  title  of  my 
book  when  I  sit  by  the  window.  Below  are  three  or 
four  blooming  ragazze,  who  are  dark-eyed,  and  have  Ro 
man  luxuriance  of  hair.  The  youngest  is  a  friend  of 
our  Enrica,  and  is  of  course  frequently  looking  up,  with 
all  the  innocence  in  the  world,  to  see  if  Enrica  ma 
be  looking  out. 

Night  after  night  a  bright  blaze  glows  upon  inj 
hearth,  of  the  alder  fagots  which  they  bring  from  the 
Alban  hills.  Night  after  night,  too,  the  family  come 
in,  to  aid  my  blundering  speech,  and  to  enjoy  the  rich 
sparkling  of  my  fagot-fire.  Little  Cesare,  a  dark-faced 
Italian  boy,  takes  up  his  position  with  pencil  and  slate, 
and  draws  by  the  light  of  the  blaze  genii  and  castles. 
The  old  one-eyed  teacher  of  Enrica  lays  his  snuffbox 
upon  the  table,  and  his  handkerchief  across  his  lap,  and 
with  his  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  and  his  big  fingers  on 
the  lesson,  runs  through  the  French  tenses  of  the  verb 
amare.  The  father,  a  sallow-faced,  keen-eyed  man  with 
true  Italian  visage,  sits  with  his  arms  upon  the  elbows 
of  his  chair,  and  talks  of  the  Pope,  or  of  the  weather. 
A  spruce  count,  from  the  Marches  of  Ancona,  wears 
heavy  watch-seal,  and  reads  Dante  with  furore.  The 
uother,  with  arms  akimbo,  looks  proudly  upon  her 
daughter,  and  counts  her,  as  well  she  may,  a  gem  among 
<he  Roman  beauties. 


THE  MORNING.  187 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing  on  one 
side ;  there  was  scarce  room  for  but  three  upon  the 
other.  Signor  il  maestro  was  one  ;  then  Enrica ;  and 
next  —  how  well  I  remember  it  —  came  myself.  For  I 
could  sometimes  help  Enrica  to  a  word  of  French  ;  and 
faroftener  she  could  help  me  to  a  word  of  Italian.  Her 
face  was  rich  and  full  of  feeling ;  I  used  greatly  to  love 
to  watch  the  puzzled  expressions  that  passed  over  her 
forehead  as  the  sense  of  some  hard  phrase  escaped  her ; 
and,  better  still,  to  see  the  happy  smile  as  she  caught 
at  a  glance  the  thought  of  some  old  scholastic  French 
man,  and  transferred  it  into  the  liquid  melody  of  her 
speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and  only  that 
very  autumn  was  escaped  from  the  thraldom  of  a  con 
vent  upon  the  skirts  of  Rome.  She  knew  nothing  of 
life  but  the  life  of  feeling,  and  all  thoughts  of  happiness 
lay  as  yet  in  her  childish  hopes.  It  was  pleasant  to  look 
upon  her  face,  and  it  was  still  more  pleasant  to  listen  to 
*hat  sweet  Roman  voice.  What  a  rich  flow  of  superla 
tives  and  endearing  diminutives  from  those  vermilion 
lips !  Who  would  not  have  loved  the  study  ;  and  who 
would  not  have  loved  —  without  meaning  it  —  the 

O 

teacher  ? 

In  those  days  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the  tables  of 
'ame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Condotti,  but  would  hurry  back 
to  my  little  Roman  parlor  —  the  fire  was  so  pleasaut 


188  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

And  it  was  so  pleasant  to  greet  Enrica  with  her  mothet 
even  before  the  one-eyed  maestro  had  come  in ;  and  il 
was  pleasant  to  unfold  the  book  between  us,  and  to 
la}  my  hand  upon  the  page  —  a  small  page  —  where 
hers  lay  already.  And  when  she  pointed  wrong,  it  was 
pleasant  to  correct  her,  over  and  over,  insisting  that  her 
hand  should  be  here,  and  not  there,  and  lifting  those 
little  fingers  from  one  page,  and  putting  them  down 
upon  the  other.  And  sometimes,  half  provoked  with 
my  fault-finding,  she  would  pat  my  hand  smartly  with 
hers  ;  but  when  I  looked  in  her  face  to  know  what  that 
could  mean,  she  would  meet  my  eye  with  such  a  kind 
submission  and  half  earnest  regret,  as  made  me  not 
only  pardon  the  offence,  but  tempt  me  to  provoke  it 
again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I  rode  pelted 
with  confetti,  and  pelting  back,  my  eyes  used  to  wander 
up,  from  a  long  way  off,  to  that  tall  house  upon  the 
Corso,  where  I  was  sure  to  meet,  again  and  again,  those 
forgiving  eyes,  and  that  soft  brown  hair,  all  gathered 
under  the  little  brown  sombrero,  set  off  with  one  pure 
white  plume.  And  her  hand  full  of  bonbons  she 
would  shake  at  me  threateningly,  and  laugh  —  a  musi 
cal  laugh  —  as  I  bowed  my  head  to  the  assault,  and 
recovering  from  the  shower  of  missiles,  would  turn  to 
throw  my  stoutest  bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At  night  I 
bear  home  to  the  Roman  parlor  my  best  troplrjf 


THE  MORNING.  189 

of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for  Enrica ;  and  Enrica  would 
be  sure  to  render  in  acknowledgment  some  carefully 
bidder  Tiowers,  the  prettiest  that  her  beauty  had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights  she  arrays 
herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Albanian  water-carriers ; 
and  nothing,  one  would  think,  could  be  prettier  than 
the  laced  crimson  jacket,  and  the  strange  head-gear 
with  its  trinkets,  and  the  short  skirts  leaving  to  view  as 
Jelicate  an  ankle  as  could  be  found  in  Rome.  Upon 
another  night  she  glides  into  my  little  parlor,  as  we  sit 
by  the  blaze,  in  a  close  velvet  bodice,  and  with  a  Swiss 
hat  caught  up  by  a  looplet  of  silver,  and  adorned  with 
u  full-blown  rose,  —  nothing  you  think  could  be  prettier 
than  this.  Again,  in  one  of  her  girlish  freaks  she  robes 
herself  like  a  nun ;  and  with  the  heavy  black  serge  for 
dress,  and  the  funereal  veil,  —  relieved  only  by  the  plain 
white  ruffle  of  her  cap,  —  you  wish  she  were  always  a 
nun.  But  the  wish  vanishes  when  you  see  her  in  a  pure 
white  muslin,  with  a  wreath  of  orange-blossoms  abou^. 
her  forehead,  and  a  single  white  rose-bud  in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enrica  keeps  a  pot  or  two  of 
flowers,  which  bloom  all  winter  long ;  and  each  morn 
ing  I  find  upon  my  table  a  fresh  rose-bud ;  each  night 
I  bear  back  for  thank-offering  the  prettiest  bouquet  that 
can  oe  found  in  the  Via  Condo<ti.  The  quiet  fireside 
oveuings  come  back,  —  in  which  my  hand  seeks  its 
wonted  place  upo»  her  book ;  and  my  other  will  creep 


I'.X)  REVERIE  b   Of  A   BACHELOR. 

around  upon    the  back  of  Enrica's  chair,  and  Enrics 
will  look  indignant  —  and  then  all  forgiveness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  packet  of  letters.  Ah, 
what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big  arn-chair,  there 
before  the  crackling  fagots,  with  the  pleasant  rustle 
of  that  silken  dress  beside  me,  and  run  over  a  second 
aud  a  third  time  those  mute  paper  missives,  which  bore 
to  me  over  so  many  miles  of  water  the  words  of  greet 
ing  and  of  love !  It  would  be  worth  travelling  to  the 
shores  of  the  ^Egean,  to  find  one's  heart  quickened  into 
such  life  as  the  ocean  letters  will  make.  Enrica  threw 
down  her  book,  and  wondered  what  could  be  in  them  ? — 
and  snatched  one  from  my  hand,  and  looked  with  sad 
but  vain  intensity  over  that  strange  scrawl.  "  What 
can  it  be  ?"  said  she  ;  and  she  laid  her  finger  upon  the 
little  half  line  — "  Dear  Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was  —  "  Caro  mic" 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap  and  looked  in  my  face 
'  It  is  from  your  mother  ?  "  said  she. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  From  your  sister  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Alas,  no  !  " 

"  H  vostro  fratello,  dunque  ?  " 

"  Nemmeno"  said  I,  "  not  from  a  brother  either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up  her  book 
(u»d  presently  she  laid  the  book  down  again,  and  looked 
at  the  letter,  and  then  at  me,  —  and  went  out. 


THE   AiURXINv.  IS! 


She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening;  in  the 
morning  there  was  no  rose-bud  on  my  table.  And 
when  I  came  at  night,  with  a  bouquet  from  Pietro's 
at  the  corner,  she  asked  me  who  had  written  my 
letter 

"  A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"  A  lady  ?  "  continued  she. 

"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and  put  it  in 
my  hands. 

"  But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers  :  she  lives 
among  them,  and  each  morning  her  children  gather 
them  by  scores  to  make  garlands  of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to  take  again 
the  bouquet  ;  and  for  a  moment  I  held  both  fingers  and 
flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  at  Rome  in  that  time,  who  afterward 
died  between  Ancona  and  Corinth.  We  were  sitting  one 

O 

day  upon  a  block  of  tufa  in  the  middle  of  the  Coliseum, 
looking  up  at  the  shadows  which  the  waving  shrubs 
upon  the  southern  wall  cast  upon  the  ruined  arcades 
within,  and  listening  to  the  chirping  sparrows  that  lived 
upon  the  wreck,  when  he  said  to  me  suddenly,—  "  Paul, 
you  love  the  Italian  girl." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

UI  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you,"  said  hp, 
soberly. 


192  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR, 

u  She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  I  believe,"  said  I. 

"  Aye,"  said  he. 

"  But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl,"  continued  I. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  my  friend ;  and  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off  drawing  diagrams  with 
his  cane.  "  I  have  seen,  Paul,  more  than  you  of  this 
southern  nature.  The  Italian  girl  of  fifteen  is  a  woman, 
—  an  impassioned,  sensitive,  tender  creature,  —  yet  stil' 
a  woman  ;  you  are  loving  —  if  you  love  —  a  full-grown 
heart;  she  is  loving  —  if  she  loves — as  a  ripe  heart 
should." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly  true," 
said  I. 

"  Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down  firmly,  and 
looking  in  my  face. 

"  How  ?"  returned  I. 

"  I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands,"  continued  he. 
"  Go  with  me  into  the  Apennines  ;  leave  your  home  in 
the  Corso,  and  see  if  you  can  forget  in  the  air  of  the 
mountains  your  bright-eyed  Roman  girl ! " 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he  went  on,  — 
u  It  is  better  so  :  love  as  you  might,  that  southern 
nature  with  all  its  passion  is  not  the  material  to  build 
domestic  happiness  upon ;  nor  is  your  northern  habit  — 
whatever  you  may  think  at  your  time  of  life  —  the  one 
to  cherish  always  those  passionate  sympathies  which 
are  bred  by  this  atmosphere  and  their  scenes." 


THE  MORNING. 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little  parlor,  and 
to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that  sweet  angel-face  ;  and 
then  like  lightning  it  traversed  oceans,  and  fed  upon 
the  old  ideal  of  home,  and  brought  images  to  my  eye 
of  lost  —  dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be  stirring  on 
heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft  Roman  atmosphere,  with 
greeting  and  with  beckoning. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  I  told  him  I 
was  going  to  the  mountains  and  wanted  a  guide.  His 
wife  said  it  would  be  cold  upon  the  hills,  for  the  winter 
was  not  ended.  Enrica  said  it  would  be  warm  in  the 
valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming.  The  old  man 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders  again,  but  said  nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Cesare  said  it 
would  be  hard  walking.  Enrica  asked  papa  if  there 
would  be  any  danger?  And  again  the  old  man 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  Again  I  asked  him  if  he  knew 
a  man  who  would  serve  us  as  guide  among  the  Apen 
nines  ;  and  finding  me  determined,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  said  he  would  find  one  the  next  day. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening  on  my  way  to  the  Piazzo 
near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where  stand  the  carriages  that 
go  out  to  Tivoli,  Enrica  glided  up  to  me  and  whis- 
ered,  "  Ah,  mi  displace  tantc  —  tarito,  Signor  !  " 


19-i  REVERIE*  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

The   Apennines. 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  afterward  was 
passing  with  my  friend  by  the  Trajan  forum,  toward  the 
deep  shadow  of  San  Maggiore,  which  lay  in  our  way  to 
the  mountains.  At  sunset  we  were  wandering  over  the 
ruin  of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies  upon  the  first  step  of 
the  Apennines.  Behind  us,  the  vesper-bells  of  Tivoli 
were  sounding,  and  their  echoes  floating  sweetly  under 
the  broken  arches ;  before  us,  stretching  all  the  way  to 
the  horizon,  lay  the  broad  Campagna ;  while  in  the 
middle  of  its  great  waves,  turned  violet-colored  by  the 
hues  of  twilight,  rose  the  grouped  towers  of  the  Eternal 
City ;  and  lording  it  among  them  all,  like  a  giant,  stood 
the  black  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the  mountains, 
leaving  the  Campagna  far  behind  us.  Rocks  and 
stones,  huge  and  ragged,  lie  strewed  over  the  surface 
right  and  left ;  deep  yawning  valleys  lie  in  the  shadows 
of  mountains  that  loom  up  thousands  of  feet,  bearing 
perhaps  upon  their  tops  old  castellated  towns  perched 
like  birds'-nests.  But  mountain  and  valley  are  blasted 
and  scarred  ;  the  forests  even  are  not  continuous,  but 
struggle  for  a  livelihood ;  as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that 
consumed  Nineveh  had  withered  their  energies.  Some 
times  our  eyes  rest  on  a  great  white  scar  of  the  broken 
Calcareous  rock,  on  which  the  moss  car  wot  grow,  and 


THE  MORNING.  195 

fhe  lizards  dare  not  creep.  Then  we  see  a  cliff  beet 
ling  far  aloft,  with  the  shining  walls  of  some  monasterj 
of  holy  men  glistening  at  its  base.  The  wayside  brooks 
do  not  seem  to  be  the  gentle  offspring  of  bountiful  hills, 
but  the  remnant*  of  something  greater  whose  greatness 
has  expired  ; — they  are  turbid  rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom 
of  yawning  chasms.  Even  the  shrubs  have  a  look  as 
if  the  Volscian  war-horse  had  trampled  them  down  to 
death  ;  and  the  primroses  and  the  violets  by  the  moun 
tain-path  alone  look  modestly  beautiful  amid  the  ruin. 

Sometimes  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above  which  the 
goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs,  and  listen  to  the  sweel 
pastoral  pipes  of  the  Apennines.  We  see  the  shepherds 
in  their  rough  skin-coats  high  over  our  heads.  Their 
herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems,  on  ledges  of  a  hand's- 
breadth.  The  sweet  sound  floats  and  lingers  in  the  soft 
atmosphere,  without  a  breath  of  wind  to  bear  it  away, 
or  a  noise  to  disturb  its  melody.  The  shadows  slant 
more  and  more  as  we  linger ;  and  the  kids  begin  to 
group  together.  And  as  we  wander  on  through  the 
stunted  vineyards  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  the  sweet 
sound  flows  after  us  like  a  river  of  song,  —  nor  leaves 
us  till  the  kids  have  vanished  in  the  distance,  and  the 
cliffs  themselves  become  one  dark  wall  of  shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meagre  mountain  town,  we 
stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass-ways,  or  wander  under 
4e  heavy  arches  of  the  mountain  churches.  Shuf 


l!96  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR 

fling  old  women  grope  in  and  out;  dim  lamps  glim 
mer  faintly  at  the  side-altars,  shedding  horrid  light 
upon  painted  images  of  the  dying  Christ.  Or  perhaps, 
to  make  the  old  pile  more  solemn,  there  stands  some 
bier  in  the  middle,  with  a  figure  or  two  kneeling  at  the 
loot,  and  ragged  boys  move  stealthily  under  the  shadows 
f  the  columns.  Presently  conies  a  young  priest  in 
black  robes,  and  lights  a  taper  at  the  foot,  and  another 
at  the  head,  —  for  there  is  a  dead  man  on  the  bier ;  and 
the  parched  thin  features  look  awfully  under  the  yellow 
light  of  the  tapers,  in  the  gloom  of  the  great  building 
It  is  very,  very  damp  in  the  church,  and  the  body  of 
the  dead  man  seems  to  make  the  air  heavy,  so  we  go 
out  into  the  starlight  again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear  broad 
shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple  on  the  herbage  to  out 
tread.  Across  the  valley  it  is  like  summer;  and  the 
birds  —  for  there  are  songsters  in  the  Apennines  — 
make  summer  music.  Their  notes  blend  softly  with 
the  faint  sounds  of  some  far-off  convent-bell  tollin^  foi 

o 

morning  mass,  and  strike  the  frosted  and  shaded  moun 
tain-side  with  a  sweet  echo.  As  we  toil  on,  and  the 
shaded  hills  begin  to  glow  in  the  sunshine,  we  pass  a 
train  of  mules  loaded  with  wine.  We  have  seen  them 
an  hour  before,  —  little  black  dots  twining  along  the 
jdiite  streak  of  footway  upon  the  mountain  above  us. 
We  lost  them  as  we  began  to  ascend,  until  a  wild  snatch 


THE  MORNING.  1^7 

)f  an  Apennine  song  turned  our  eyes  up,  and  there, 
straggling  through  the  brush,  they  appeared  again ;  a 
foot-slip  would  have  brought  the  mules  and  wine-cask^ 
rolling  upon  us.  We  keep  still,  holding  by  the  brush 
wood,  to  let  them  pass.  An  hour  more  and  we  see 
them  toiling  slowly,  —  mule  and  muleteer,  —  big  dots 
and  little  dots,  —  far  down  where  we  have  been  before. 
The  sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  them  in  the  bare  val 
leys  ;  the  sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  the  hillside,  where 
we  are  toiling  over  the  broken  stones.  I  thought  of 
little  Enrica,  when  she  said  —  the  spring  was  coming; 
Time  and  again,  we  sit  down  together  —  my  friend 
and  I  —  upon  some  fragment  of  rock,  under  the  broad- 
armed  chestnuts  that  fringe  the  lower  skirts  of  the 
mountains,  and  talk  through  the  hottest  of  the  noon,  of 
the  warriors  of  Sylla,  and  of  the  Sabine  women, — but 
oftener  of  the  pretty  peasantry,  and  of  the  sweet-faced 
Roman  girl.  He  too  tells  me  of  his  life  and  loves,  and 
of  the  hopes  that  lie  misty  and  grand  before  him :  — 
little  did  we  think  that  in  so  few  years  his  hopes  would 
be  gone,  and  his  body  lying  low  in  the  Adriatic,  or  tost 
with  the  drift  upon  the  Dalmatian  shores  !  Little  did 
1  think  that  here  under  the  ancestral  wood  —  still  a 
wishful  and  blundering  mortal  —  I  should  be  gathering 
up  the  shreds  that  memory  can  catch  of  our  Apennine 
wandering,  and  be  weaving  them  into  my  bacheloi 
ireams. 


198  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of  thought,  I  follow 
jur  steps,  as,  after  weeks  of  wandering,  we  gained  once 
more  a  height  that  overlooked  the  Campagna,  and  saw 
the  sun  setting  on  its  edge,  throwing  into  relief  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  blazing  in  a  red  stripe  upon 
the  waters  of  the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina,  —  the  Praeneste  of  the  poets 
nnd  philosophers, —  the  dwelling-place  of —  I  know  not 
how  many  —  Emperors.  We  went  straggling  through 
the  dirty  streets,  searching  for  pome  tidy-looking  osteria. 
At  length  we  found  an  old  lady,  who  could  give  us  a 
bed,  but  no  dinner.  My  friend  dropped  in  a  chair  dis 
heartened.  A  snub-looking  priest  came  out  to  condole 
with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina,  —  the  frigidum  Prceneste  of 
Horace,  which  had  entertained  over  and  over  the 
noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and  the  most  noble  Adrian,  — 
could  Palestrina  not  furnish  a  dinner  to  a  tired  trav 
eller? 

"  Si,  Signore"  said  the  snub-looking  priest 

"  Si,  Signorino"  said  the  neat  old  lady ;  and  away 
we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And  we  found  bright 
and  happy  face^,  —  especially  the  little  girl  of  twelve 
years,  who  came  close  by  me  as  I  ate,  and  after 
vard  strung  a  garland  of  marigolds,  and  put  it  on  my 
head.  Then  there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy  of  fourteen, 
rho  wrote  his  name  and  those  of  the  whole  family 


THE    MORNING.  199 

apon  a  fly-leaf  of  my  book ;  and  a  pretty,  saucy-looking 
girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped  a  long  time  from  behind  the 
kitchen-door,  but  before  the  evening  was  gone  she  was 
in  the  chair  beside  me,  and  had  written  her  name  — 
Carlotta  —  upon  the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 

When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From  my  bed  I  could 
see  over  the  town  the  thin,  lazy  mists  lying  on  the  oil 
camp-ground  of  Pyrrhus ;  beyond  it  were  the  moun 
tains  which  hide  Frascati,  and  Monte-Cavi.  There  was 
old  Colonna,  too,  that, 

"  Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine  '  * 

As  the  mist  lifted  and  the  sun  brightened  the  plain, 
I  could  see  the  road  along  which  Sylla  came  fuming 
and  maddened  after  the  Mithridatic  war.  I  could  see, 
as  I  half-dreamed  and  half-slept,  the  frightened  peas 
antry  whooping  to  their  long -horned  cattle,  as  they 
drove  them  on  tumultuously  up  through  the  gateways 
of  the  town  ;  and  women  with  babies  in  their  arms,  and 
children  scowling  with  fear  and  hate, —  all  trooping  fast 
.ind  madly  to  escape  the  hand  of  the  Avenger ;  alas 
Ineffectually,  for  Sylla  murdered  them,  and  pulled  down 
";he  walls  of  their  town  —  the  proud  Palestrina  ! 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles  of  Rome,  led 
»n  by  tS/ofano  Colonna,  grouping  along  the  plain,  theii 

*  Macaulay's  Horatitu. 


200  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

corselet  sflashing  jut  of  the  mists,  their  pennons  dashing 
above  it,  coming  up  fast  and  still  as  the  wind,  to  make 
the  Mural  Praeneste  their  stronghold  against  the  Last 
of  the  Tribunes.  And  strangely  mingling  fiction  with 
fact,  I  saw  the  brother  of  Walter  de  Montreal,  with  his 
noisy  and  bristling  army,  crowd  over  the  Campugna,  and 
put  up  his  white  tents,  and  hang  out  his  showy  banners 
on  the  grassy  knolls  that  lay  nearest  my  eye. 

But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there  was  not  so 

much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on  them  to  whistle  a  mimic 
fife-note.  A  little  boy  from  the  inn  went  with  me  upon 
the  hill,  to  look  out  upon  the  town  and  the  wide  sea  of 
land  below ;  and  whether  it  was  the  soft,  warm  April 
sun,  or  the  gray  ruins  below  me,  or  whether  the  won 
derful  silence  of  the  scene,  or  some  wild  gush  of  mem 
ory,  I  do  not  know,  but  something  made  me  sad. 

"  Perche  cosi  penseroso  ?  —  Why  so  sad  ?  "  said  the 
quick-eyed  boy.  "  The  air  is  beautiful,  the  scene  is 
beautiful ;  Signore  is  young,  —  why  is  he  sad  ?  " 

"And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Quasi  mai"  said  the  boy ;  "  and  if  I  could  travel  as 
Signore,  and  see  other  countries,  I  would  be  always 

gay." 

"  May  you  be  always  that !  "  said  I. 

The  good  wish  touched  him ;  he  took  me  by  the  arms 
and  said,  "  Go  home  with  me,  Signore  ;  you  were  happy 
at  the  inn  last  night :  go  back,  and  we  will  make  you 
sjay  again ! " 


THE  MORNING.  201 

If  we  could  be  always  boys  ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened  him.  We 
passed  out  shortly  after  from  the  city  gates,  and  strode 
DD  over  the  rolling  plain.  Once  or  twice  we  turned 
back  to  look  at  the  rocky  heights  beneath  which  lay  the 
ruined  town  of  Palestrina,  —  a  city  that  defied  Rome, 
that  had  a  king  before  a  ploughshare  had  touched  the 
Capitoliue,  or  the  Janiculan  hill !  The  ivy  was  covering 
tip  richly  the  Etruscan  foundations,  and  there  was  a 
•juiet  over  the  whole  place.  The  smoke  was  rising 
straight  into  the  sky  from  the  chimney-tops ;  a  peasant 
or  two  were  going  along  the  road  with  donkeys  ;  beside 
this,  the  city  was  to  all  appearance  a  dead  city.  And  it 
seemed  to  me  that  an  old  monk,  whom  I  could  see  with 
my  glass  near  the  little  chapel  above  the  town,  might  be 
going  to  say  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to  Rome,  and 
passed  under  the  temple-tomb  of  Metella,  my  friend 
said,  "And  will  you  go  back  now  to  your  home?  or  will 
you  set  off  with  me  to-morrow  for  Ancona  ?  " 

"At  least  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"  God  speed  you  !  "  said  he  ;  and  we  parted  upon  the 
Piazza  di  Venezia,  —  he  for  his  last  mass  at  Ft.  Peter's, 
md  I  for  the  tall  house  upon  the  Corso. 
9* 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 


Enrica. 

I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet  the  moment  I  have  tinkled 
the  bell ;  and  there  she  is,  with  her  brown  hair  gath 
ered  into  braids,  and  her  eyes  full  of  joy  and  greeting. 
And  as  I  walk  with  the  mother  to  the  window,  to  look 
at  some  pageant  that  is  passing,  she  steals  up  behind, 
and  passes  her  arm  around  me  with  a  quick,  electric 
motion,  and  a  gentle  pressure  of  welcome,  that  tells 
more  than  a  thousand  words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing  below.  Far 
down  the  street  we  see  heads  thrust  out  of  the  windows, 
and  standing  in  bold  relief  against  the  red  torch-light 
of  the  moving  train.  Below,  dim  figures  are  gathering 
on  the  narrow  side-ways  to  look  at  the  solemn  spectacle. 
A  hoarse  chant  rises  louder  and  louder,  and  half  dies 
in  the  night-air,  and  breaks  out  again  with  new  and 
Jeep  bitterness. 

Now  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines  plainly  on 
faces  in  the  windows,  and  on  the  kneeling  women  in  the 
street.  First  come  old  retainers  of  the  dead  one,  bear 
ing  long,  blazing  flambeaux.  Then  comes  a  company 
of  priests,  two  by  two,  bareheaded,  and  every  secouc 
Due  with  a  lighted  torch,  and  all  are  chanting. 

Next  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown  cloaks,  with 
sandalled  feet ;  and  the  red  light  streams  full  upon  their 
grizzled  heads.  They  add  their  heavy  guttural  voices  to 
\he  chant,  and  pass  slowly  on. 


THE  MORNING.  20S 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  in  white  muslin 
oapes,  and  black  robes,  and  black  caps,  bearing  books 
in  their  hands  wide  open,  and  lit  up  plainly  by  the 
torches  of  churchly  servitors  who  march  beside  them ; 
and  from  the  books  the  priests  chant  loud  and  solemnly 
Now  the  music  is  loudest ;  and  the  friars  take  up  tint 
dismal  notes  from  the  white-caped  priests,  and  the 
priests  before  catch  them  from  the  brown-robed  friars, 
and  mournfully  the  sound  rises  up  between  the  tall 
buildings  into  the  blue  night-sky  that  lies  between 
heaven  and  Rome. 

— "  Vede,  vede ! "  says  Cesare  ;  and  in  a  blaze  of 
the  red  torch-fire  comes  the  bier,  borne  on  the  necks  of 
stout  friars ;  and  on  the  bier  is  the  body  of  a  dead  man 
habited  like  a  priest.  Heavy  plumes  of  black  wave  at 
each  corner. 

—  "  Hist ! "  says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  crosses  herself; 
her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone.  Cesare's  boy-face  is 
grown  suddenly  earnest  We  could  see  the  pale,  youth 
ful  features  of  the  dead  man.  The  glaring  flambeaux 
sent  their  flaunting  streams  of  unearthly  light  over  the 
wan  visage  of  the  sleeper.  A  thousand  eyes  were  look 
ing  on  him  ;  but  his  face,  careless  of  them  all,  was  turm-il 
np  straight  toward  the  stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises  ;  and  companies  of  priests  follow 
the  bier  like  those  who  hud  ijone  before.  Friars  ii 


204  REVERIES  OF  A    BACHELOR, 

brown  cloaks,  and  prelates  and  Carmelites,  come  after 
all  with  torches.  Two  by  two  —  their  voices  growing 
hoarse  —  they  tramp,  and  chant. 

For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can  hear  the 
rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their  footfalls,  as  if  your  ear 
was  to  the  earth.  Then  the  chant  rises  again  as  they 
glide  on  in  a  wavy,  shining  line,  and  rolls  back  over  the 
death-train,  like  the  howling  of  a  wind  in  winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the  windows.  The 
kneeling  women  upon  the  pavement  rise  up,  mindful  of 
the  paroxysm  of  Life  once  more.  The  groups  in  the 
doorways  scatter.  But  their  low  voices  do  not  drown 
the  voices  of  the  host  of  mourners  and  their  ghost-like 
music. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier  trailing  under  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  palaces,  and  at  the  stream 
of  torches  winding  like  a  glittering,  scaled  serpent.  — 
"  It  is  a  priest,"  say  I  to  my  landlady,  as  she  closes  the 
window. 

u  No,  signor,  —  a  young  man  never  married  ;  and  so 
by  virtue  of  his  condition  they  put  on  him  the  priest- 
robes." 

"  So  I,"  says  the  pretty  Enrica,  "  if  I  should  die, 
would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you  saw  me  on  a  Carnival 
light,  and  be  followed  by  nuns  for  sisters." 

"  A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica !  " 

She  took  my  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it.    An  Italiau 


THE  MORNING.  205 

tprl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of  death  ;  and  we  were  talking 
of  it  still  as  we  walked  back  to  my  little  parlor  —  my 
hand  all  the  time  in  hers  —  and  sat  down  by  the  blaze 
of  my  fire. 

It  was  Holy  Week.  Never  had  Knrica  looked  more 
sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress,  —  under  that  long, 
dark  veil  of  the  days  of  Lent.  Upon  the  broad  pave 
ment  of  St.  Peter's,  where  the  people,  flocking  by 
thousands,  made  only  side-groups  about  the  altars  of 
the  vast  temple,  I  have  watched  her  kneeling  beside 
her  mother,  her  eyes  bent  down,  her  lips  moving  ear 
nestly,  and  her  whole  figure  tremulous  with  deep  emo 
tion.  Wandering  around  among  the  halberdiers  of  the 
Pope,  and  the  court-coats  of  Austria,  and  the  bare 
footed  pilgrims  with  sandal,  shell,  and  staff,  I  would 
sidle  back  again,  to  look  upon  that  kneeling  figure ; 
and  leaning  against  the  huge  columns  of  the  church, 
would  dream  —  even  as  I  am  dreaming  now. 

At  nightfall  I  urge  my  way  into  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
Enrica  is  beside  me,  looking  with  me  upon  the  gaunt 
figures  of  the  Judgment  of  Angelo.  They  are  chant 
ing  the  Miserere.  The  twelve  candlesticks  by  the  altar 
are  put  out  one  by  one,  as  the  service  continues.  The 
sun  has  gone  down,  and  only  the  red  glow  of  twilight 
steals  through  the  dusky  windows.  There  is  a  pause, 
and  a  brief  reading  from  a  red-cloaked  cardinal,  and  all 
down.  She  kneels  beside  me;  and  the  sweet, 


206  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

mournful  flow  of  the  Miserere  begins  again,  growing 
in  force  and  depth  till  the  whole  chapel  rings,  and  the 
balcony  of  the  choir  trembles  ;  then  it  subsides  again 
into  the  low,  soft  wail  of  a  single  voice,  so  prolonged, 
BO  tremulous,  and  so  real,  that  the  heart  aches,  and  the 
ears  start  —  for  Christ  is  dead! 

Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly,  but,  just 

as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is  caught  up  by  another  and 
stronger  voice  that  carries  it  on,  plaintive  as  ever;  — 
nor  does  it  stop  with  this ;  for  just  as  you  looked  for 
silence,  three  voices  more  begin  the  lament,  —  sweet, 
touching,  mournful  voices,  —  and  bear  it  up  to  a  full 
cry,  when  the  whole  choir  catch  its  burden,  and  make 
the  lament  change  into  the  wailing  of  a  multitude,  — 
wild,  shrill,  hoarse, —  with  swift  chants  intervening,  as 
if  agony  had  given  force  to  anguish.  Then,  sweetly, 
slowly,  voice  by  voice,  note  by  note,  the  wailings  sink 
into  the  low,  tender  moan  of  a  single  singer  —  falter 
ing,  tremulous,  as  if  tears  checked  the  utterance,  and 
swelling  out  as  if  despair  sustained  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel  when  we  went  out ;  voices 
irere  low.  Enrica  said  nothing,  —  I  could  say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter.  I  did  not  love  to 
epeak  of  it,  nor  to  think  of  it.  Rome  —  that  old  city 
with  all  its  misery,  and  its  fallen  state,  and  its  broken 
palaces  of  the  Empire  —  grows  upon  one's  heart.  The 
-ringing  shrubs  of  the  Coliseum,  flaunting  their  blossoms 


THE   MORNING.  207 

dt  the  tall  beggarmen  in  cloaks,  who  grub  below,-— 
the  sun  glimmering  over  the  mossy  pile  of  the  'House 
of  Nero,  —  the  sweet  sunsets  from  the  Pincian,  that 
make  the  broad  pine- tops  of  the  Janiculan  stand  sharp 
and  dark  against  a  sky  of  gold,  —  cannot  easily  be  left 
behind.  And  Enrica,  with  her  silver-brown  hair,  and 
the  silken  fillet  that  bound  it,  —  and  her  deep  hazel 
eyes,  —  and  her  white,  delicate  fingers,  —  and  the  blue 
veins  chasing  over  her  fair  temples,  —  ah,  Easter  is  too 
near  ! 

But  it  comes ;  and  passes  with  the  glory  of  St. 
Pecer's  —  lighted  from  top  to  bottom.  With  Enrica, 
I  saw  it  from  the  Ripetta,  as  it  loomed  up  in  the  dis 
tance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch  of  flowers, 
and  with  it  a  little  richly  chased  Roman  ring.  No  fire 
blazes  on  the  hearth,  —  but  they  are  all  there.  Warm 
days  have  come,  and  the  summer  air  even  now  hangs, 
heavy  with  fever,  in  the  hollows  of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morning  on  which 
I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not  think  I  slept  very  well 
myself — nor  very  late.  Never  did  Enrica  look  more 
beautiful  —  never.  All  her  Carnival  robes,  and  the 
•sad  drapery  of  the  Friday  of  Crucifixion,  could  not  so 
;idorn  her  beauty  as  that  neat  morning-dress,  and  that 
>imple  rose-bud  she  wore  upon  her  bosom.  She  gave 
It  to  me  —  the  last  —  with  a  trembling  hand.  I  did 


208  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Dot,  for  *  could  not,  thank  her.     She  knew  it ;  and  hei 
eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek,  —  it  was  the  Roman 
custom,  but  the  custom  did  not  extend  to  the  Roman 
girls,  at  least  not  often.     As  I  passed  down  the  Corso 
I  looked  back  at  the  balcony,  where  she  stood  in  the 
time   of   Carnival,   in    the    brown    sombrero  with    th 
white  plume.     I  knew  she  would  be  there  now ;  an 
there  she  was.     My  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  vision,  very 
loth  to  leave  it ;  and  after  my  eyes  had  lost  it,  my  heart 
clung  to  it,  —  there,  where  my  memory  clings  now. 

At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the  hills  toward 
Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome.  There  was  a  stunted 
pine-tree  grew  a  little  way  from  the  road,  and  I  sat 
down  under  it,  —  for  I  wished  no  dinner, —  and  I  looked 
back  with  strange  tumult  of  feeling  upon  the  sleeping 
city,  with  the  gray,  billowy  sea  of  the  Campagna  lying 
around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica  —  the  Roman  girl  —  in  that 
morning-dress,  with  her  brown  hair  in  its  silken  fillet ; 
jut  the  rose-bud,  that  was  in  her  bosom,  was  now  in 
mine.  Her  silvery  voice  too  seemed  to  float  past  me, 
bearing  snatches  of  Roman  songs ;  but  the  songs  were 
sad  and  broken. 

After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity !  thought  I ;  and  yet 

ff  I  had  espied  then   some   returning  carriage  going 
iown  toward  Rome,  I  will  not  say  —  but  that  I  should 


THE  MORNING.  209 

have  hailed  it,  and  taken  a  place,  and  gone  back,  and 
to  this  day,  perhaps  —  have  lived  at  Rome. 

But  the  vetturino  called  me ;  the  coach  was  ready  ; 
I  gave  one  more  look  toward  the  dome  that  guarded 
the  sleeping  city ;  and  then  we  galloped  down  the 
mountain  on  the  road  that  lay  towards  Perugia  and 
Lake  Thrasimene. 

Sweet  Enrica  !  art  thou  living  yet  ?  Or  hast 

thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land  where  the  good 
sleep  and  the  beautiful? 

The  visions  of  the  Past  fade.  The  morning  breeze 
has  died  upon  the  meadow;  the  Bob-o'-Lincoln  sits 
swaying  upon  the  willow-turfs,  singing  no  longer.  The 
trees  lean  to  the  brook ;  but  the  shadows  fall  straight 
and  dense  upon  the  silver  stream. 

Noon  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky  ;  and  Morning 
is  gone. 


LL 

Noon. 

JTI^HE  Noon  is  short;  the  sun  never  loiters  on  Uii 
-*-  meridian,  nor  does  the  shadow  on  the  old  dial  by 
the  garden  stay  long  at  XII.  The  Present,  like  the 
noon,  is  only  a  point,  and  a  point  so  fine,  that  it  is  not 
measurable  by  the  grossness  of  action.  Thought  alone 
is  delicate  enough  to  tell  the  breadth  of  the  Present. 

The  Past  belongs  to  God ;  the  Present  only  is  ours. 
And  short  as  it  is,  there  is  more  in  it  and  of  it  than  we 
can  well  manage.  That  man  who  can  grapple  it,  and 
measure  it,  and  fill  it  with  his  purpose,  is  doing  a 
man's  work ;  none  can  do  more ;  but  there  are  thou 
sands  who  do  less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  Present  is  great  and  strong,  —  as 
much  stronger  than  the  Past  as  fire  than  ashes,  or  as 
Death  than  the  grave.  The  noon  sun  will  quicken  veg 
etable  life  that  in  the  morning  was  dead.  It  is  hot 
and  scorching ;  I  feel  it  now  upon  my  head  ;  but  it 
does  not  scorch  and  heat  like  the  bewildering  Present. 
There  are  no  oak-leaves  to  interrupt  the  rays  of  the 
turning  Now.  Its  shadows  do  not  fall  east  or  west 


NOON.  211 

like  the  noon,  the  shade  it  makes  falls  straight  from  sk) 
to  earth,  —  straight  from  Heaven  to  Hell ! 

Memory  presides  over  the  Past ;  Action  presides  over 
the  Present.  The  first  lives  in  a  rich  temple  hung 
with  glorious  trophies  and  lined  with  tombs  ;  the  other 
has  no  shrine  but  Duty,  and  it  walks  the  earth  like  a 
spirit ! 

I  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we  shared  together 

the  meal  that  I  had  brought  away  at  sunrise  from  the 
mansion  under  the  elms  ;  and  now  Carlo  is  gnawing  at 
the  bone  that  I  have  thrown  to  him,  and  I  stroll  dream 
ily  in  the  quiet  noon  atmosphere  upon  that  grassy  knoll 
under  the  oaks. 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still :  the  birds  do  not 
sing  ;  the  workmen  are  not  in  the  field ;  the  sheep  lay 
their  noses  to  the  ground ;  and  the  herds  stand  in  pools 
under  shady  trees,  lashing  their  sides,  but  otherwise 
motionless.  The  mills  upon  the  brook  far  above  have 
ceased  for  an  hour  their  labor  ;  and  the  stream  softens 
its  rustle,  and  sinks  away  from  the  sedgy  banks.  The 
heat  plays  upon  the  meadow  in  noiseless  waves,  and  the 
beech-leaves  do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of  the  Pres 
ent;  and  the  stillness  of  noon  breeds  thought,  and  my 
thought  brings  up  the  old  companions,  and  stations  them 
•n  the  domain  of  Now.  Thought  ranges  over  the  world, 
tnd  brings  up  nopes  and  fears  and  resolves  to  measure 


-1.         -V-L  "^ .-.  _ -L .-   .  :•"  j* 


Ls 

M> 


:;-,_- 


-      -        -:      "f 


-         -_ie 


-V: 


-  -  _  - 


<  :.-itv       .  -:  .:  1- 


L.t:     -• 


T 

•ffifc.     He  does  a 


.    - 


I-,:-: 


214  GKVERIL3  cF  A  BACHELOR. 

same  when  I  told  it  to  her :  Paul,  Paid,  —  she  did  not 
remember  any  Paul  except  a  little  boy.  a  long  wl ale  ago. 

"To  whom  you  gave   a  purse  when   he  went 

away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing  to  Lilly  or  to 
Ben?' 

-  Yes ;  that  Pful^  saxs  the  old  woman,  exulting^ 
do  you  know  him?"  »* 

And  when  I  told  herf— '^e  would  not  have  believed 
it ! "  But  she  did,  a^P  fflok  hold  of  my  hand  again 
(for  she  was  blind) ;  and  then  smoothed  down  the  plaits 
of  her  apron,  and  jogged  her  cap-strings,  to  look  tidy 
in  the  presence  of  -  the  gentleman."  And  she  told  me 
long  stories  about  the  old  house,  and  how  other  people 
came  in  afterward ;  and  she  called  me  -  sir  **  sometimes, 
and  sometimes  "  Paul."  But  I  asked  her  to  say  only 
Pan!  ;  she  seemed  glad  for  this,  and  talked  easier ;  and 
went  on  to  tell  of  my  old  playmates,  and  how  we  used 
to  ride  the  pony, — poor  Jacko !  —  and  bow  we  gathered 
nuts,  —  such  heaping  piles ;  and  how  we  used  to  play 
at  fbx-and-geese  through  the  long  winter  evenings; 

and  bow  my  poor  mother  would  smile but  here  I 

isked  her  to  stop.  She  could  not  have  gone  on  much 
longer,  for  I  believe  she  loved  our  house  and  people 
better  than  she  loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man,  who  lived  with 
Us  books  in  the  boose  upon  the  hill,  and  who  used  to 
Tighten  me  sometimes  with  his  look,  he  grew  very  feeble 


xoox.  215 

after  I  had  left,  and  almost  crazed.  The  country-people 
said  that  he  was  mad ;  and  Isabel  with  her  sweet  heart 
dung  to  him,  and  would  lead  him  out,  when  his  step 
tottered,  to  the  seat  in  the  garden,  and  read  to  him  ont 
of  the  books  he  loved  to  bear.  And  sometimes,  the} 
told  me,  she  would  read  to  him  some  letters  that  I  had 
written  to  Lilly  or  to  Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he  remem 
bered  Paul,  who  saved  her  from  drowning  under  the 
tree  in  the  meadow  ?  But  he  could  only  shake  his  head, 
and  mutter  something  about  how  old  and  feeble  he  had 
grown. 

They  wrote  me  afterward  that  he  died;  and  was 
buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where  his  wife  once  bred, 
and  where  he  now  sleep?  beside  her.  Isabel  was  sick 
with  grief,  and  came  to  lire  for  a  time  with  Lilly ;  but 
when  they  wrote  me  last,  she  had  gone  back  to  her 
old  home.  —  where  Tray  was  buried, — where  we  had 
played  together  so  often  through  the  long  days  of 
summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there  when  I  came  back 
Lilly  and  Ben  were  both  living  nearer  to  the  city  when 
I  landed  from  my  long  journey  over  the  seas ;  but  still 
I  went  to  find  Isabel  first  Perhaps  I  had  heard  so 
much  oftener  from  the  others  that  I  felt  less  eager  to 

_ 

see  them ;  or  perhaps  I  wanted  to  save  my  best  visits 
So  the  last ;  or  perhaps  (I  did  think  it)  —  perhaps  I 
loved  Isabel  better  than  them  all 


216  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR, 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all  the  way  how 
she  must  have  changed  since  I  left.  She  must  be 
now  nineteen  or  twenty ;  and  then  her  grief  must  have 
saddened  her  face  somewhat;  but  I  thought  I  should 
like  her  all  the  better  for  that.  Then  perhaps  she 
would  not  laugh,  and  tease  me,  but  would  be  quieter, 
and  wear  a  sweet  smile,  —  so  calm  and  beautiful,  I 
thought.  Her  figure  too  must  have  grown  more  ele 
gant,  and  she  would  have  more  dignity  in  her  air. 

I  shuddered  a  little  at  this  ;  for  I  thought,  —  she  will 
hardly  think  so  much  of  me  then ;  perhaps  she  will 
have  seen  those  whom  she  likes  a  great  deal  better 
Perhaps  she  will  not  like  me  at  all ;  yet  I  knew  very 
well  that  I  should  like  her. 

I  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house  ;  I  had  passed  the 
stream  where  we  fished  on  that  day,  many  years  before ; 
and  I  thought  that  now  since  she  was  grown  to  woman 
hood,  I  should  never  sit  with  her  there  again,  and  surely 
never  drag  her  as  I  did  out  of  the  water,  and  never 
chafe  her  little  hands,  and  never  perhaps  kiss -her  as  I 
did  when  she  sat  upon  my  mother's  lap,  —  oh,  no  — 
no  — no! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the  old  slab  was 
^one ;  there  was  no  ribbon  there  now.  I  thought  that 
at  least  Isabel  would  have  replaced  the  slab;  but  it 
was  a  wrong  thought.  I  trembled  when  I  went  up  to 
:he  door ;  for  it  flashed  upon  me,  that  perhaps  Isabo.l 


NOON.  211 

was  married.  I  could  not  tell  why  she  should  not :  but 
I  knew  it  would  make  me  uncomfortable  t6  hear  that 
she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman,  who  opened  the  door ;  she 
did  not  know  me ;  but  I  recognized  her  as  one  of  the 
old  servants.  I  asked  after  the  housekeeper  first,  think 
ing  I  would  surprise  Isabel.  My  heart  fluttered  some 
what,  thinking  that  she  might  step  in  suddenly  herself, 
or  perhaps  that  she  might  have  seen  me  coming  up  the 
hill.  But  even  then,  I  thought,  she  would  hardly  know 
me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  looking  very 
grave ;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman  wished  to  see  her  ? 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat  down  on  one 
side  of  the  fire ;  for  it  was  autumn,  and  the  leaves 
were  falling,  and  the  November  winds  were  very  chilly. 

Shall  I  tell  her,  thought  I,  who  I  am,  or  ask 

at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask ;  but  it  was  hard  for 
me  to  call  her  name ;  it  was  very  strange,  but  I  could 
not  pronounce  it  at  all. 

"  Who,  sir  ?  "  said  the  housekeeper,  in  a  tone  so  ear 
nest  that  I  rose  at  once,  and  crossed  over,  and  took 
her  hand  :  "  You  know  me,"  said  I,  —  "  you  surely 
•emember  Paul  ?  " 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered  herself  and 
esumed  the  same  grave  manner.  I  thought  I  had 
committed  some  mistake,  or  been  in  some  way  cause 
10 


--» 


RETEXfES  OF  A  BACHEL 


7,,. 
^tr. 


• 


:  — 

--.-  -.--.;. 


;  hrit  I  dU  Bat  kor  dtea  aary 


I:  :-  i:  :- 
,:  ;  :  :--.:: 
preca.' 


Jl  -    r 


OGoi!" 


. — every  smBsfcaae 

_  .      -   -         : 


had 


7  '  .  '  '  : 
Im*.  : 


ft  poor  Tray 
Toy  I 


Ah,  wfeai  a  gap  ia  tfce  worid  is 


.  _:  .       -    .    - " :. .  - 


—  .-.-._-".    :_'_    i     ;:. 


220  REVERIES    OF  A   BACHELOR. 

nothing —  but  the  little  mound  I  had  dressed  over  Bella's 
grave.     There  she  sleeps  now,  —  the  sleep  of  Death  ! 


ScJwol  Revisited. 

THE  old  school  is  there  still,  with  the  high  cupola 
upon  it,  and  the'  long  galleries,  with  the  sleeping-rooms 
opening  out  on  either  side,  and  the  corner  one  where  I 
slept.  But  the  boys  are  not  there,  nor  the  old  teachers. 
They  have  ploughed  up  the  play-ground  to  plant  corn ; 
and  the  apple-tree  with  the  low  limb,  that  made  our 
gymnasium,  is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It  was  on  Sun 
day.  One  of  the  old  houses  of  the  village  had  been 
fashioned  into  a  tavern,  and  it  was  there  I  stopped. 
But  I  strolled  by  the  old  one,  and  looked  into  the  bar 
room,  where  I  used  to  gaze  with  wonder  upon  the  enor-. 
-  mous  pictures  of  wild  animals,  which  heralded  some 
coming  menagerie.  There  was  just  such  a  picture 
hanging  still,  and  two  or  three  advertisements  of 
sheriffs,  and  a  little  bill  of  a  "  horse  stolen,"  and,  as  I 
jhought,  the  same  brown  pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the 
bar.  I  was  sure  it  was  the  same  great  wood-box  that 
stood  by  the  fireplace,  and  the  same  whip  and  great- 
•.oat  hung  in  the  corner. 

*        I  was  not  in  so  gay  a  costume  as  I  once  thought  I 
urould  be  wearing,  when  a  man  ;  I  had  nothing  bettei 


NOON.  221 

than  a  rusty  shooting-jacket ;  but  even  \vith  this  I  was 
determined  to  have  a  look  about  the  church,  and  see  if 
I  could  trace  any  of  the  faces  of  the  old  times.  They 
had  sadly  altered  the  building ;  they  had  cut  out  its 
long  galleries,  and  its  old-fashioned  square  pews,  and 
filled  it  with  narrow  boxes,  as  they  do  in  the  city.  The 
pulpit  was  not  so  high,  or  grand  ;  and  it  was  covered 
ovei  with  the  work  of  the  cabinet-makers. 

I  missed,  too,  the  old  preacher  whom  we  all  feared  so 
much  ;  and  in  place  of  him  was  a  jaunty-looking  man, 
whom  I  thought  I  would  not  be  at  all  afraid  to  speak 
to,  or,  if  need  be,  to  slap  on  the  shoulder.  And  when  I 
did  meet  him  after  church,  I  looked  him  in  the  eye  as 
boldly  as  a  lion ;  —  what  a  change  was  that  from  the 
school-days ! 

Here  and  there  I  could  detect  about  the  church  some 
.old  farmer,  by  the  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  or  by  a  par 
ticular  twist  in  his  nose  ;  and  one  or  two  young  fellows, 
who  used  to  storm  into  the  gallery  in  my  school-days,  in 
very  gay  jackets  dressed  off  with  ribbons,  —  which  we 
thought  was  astonishing  'heroism,  and  admired  accord 
ingly,  —  were  now  settled  away  into  fathers  of  families 
.ind  looked  as  demure  and  peaceable  at  the  head  of 
their  pews,  with  a  white  -  headed  boy  or  two  between 
them  and  their  wives,  as  if  they  had  been  married  all 
'heir  days. 

There  was  a  stout  man,  too,  with  a  slight  limp  in  his 


222  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

gait,  who  used  to  work  on  harnesses,  and  strap  oui 
skates,  and  who  I  always  thought  would  have  made  a 
capital  Vulcan  ;  he  stalked  up  the  aisle  past  me  as  if 
I  had  my  skates  strapped  at  his  shop  only  yesterday. 

The  bald-pated  shoemaker,  who  never  kept  his  word, 
and  who  worked  in  the  brick  shop,  and  who  had  a  sou 
called  Theodore,  —  which  we  all  thought  a  very  pretty 
name  for  a  shoemaker's  son,  —  I  could  not  find.  I 
feared  he  might  be  dead.  I  hoped,  if  he  was,  that  his 
broken  promises  about  patching  boots  would  not  come 
up  against  him. 

The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar-crackers,  who 
t^ed  to  drive  his  covered  wagon  every  Saturday  even- 
tag  into  the  play-ground,  I  observed,  still  holding  his 
place  in  the  village  choir,  and  singing  —  though  with  a 
tooth  or  two  gone  —  as  serenely  and  obstreperously  as 
ever. 

I  looked  around  the  church  to  find  the  black-eyed 
girl,  who  always  sat  behind  the  choir,  —  the  one  I  loved 
to  look  at  so  much.  I  knew  she  must  be  grown  up ;  but 
I  could  fix  upon  no  face  positively  ;  once,  as  a  stout 
voman  with  a  pair  of  boys,  and  who  wore  a  big  red 
shawl,  turned  half-round,  I  thought  I  recognized  her 
nose.  If  it  was  she,  it  had  grown  red  though,  and  I 
felt  cured  of  my  old  fondness.  As  for  the  other,  who 
wore  the  hat  trimmed  with  fur,  she  was  nowhere  to  bo 
»een,  among  either  maids  or  matrons  ;  and  when  I  asked 


NOON.  22H 

the  tavern-keeper,  and  described  her  and  Her  father  as 
they  were  in  my  school-days,  he  told  me  that  she  had 
married  too,  and  lived  some  five  miles  from  the  village  ; 
and,  said  he,  "  I  guess  she  leads  her  husband  a  devil  of 
a  life ! " 

1  felt  cured  of  her  too  ;  but  I  pitied  the  husband. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the  church ;  I  could 
;jave  sworn  to  his  face  ;  he  was  a  precise  man,  and  now 
I  thought  he  looked  rather  roughly  at  my  old  shooting- 
jacket  But  I  let  him  look,  and  scowled  at  him  a  little ; 
for  I  remembered  that  he  had  feruled  me  once.  1 
thought  it  was  not  probable  that  he  would  ever  do  it 
again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the  village,  who 
lived  in  a  large  house*  and  who  was  the  great  man  of 
that  town  and  country :  he  had  scarce  changed  at  all ; 
and  he  stepped  into  the  church  as  briskly  and  promptly 
as  he  did  ten  years  ago.  But  what  struck  me  most  was 
the  change  in  a  couple  of  pretty  little  white-haired  girls 
that  at  the  time  I  left  were  of  that  uncertain  age  when 
the  mother  lifts  them  on  a  Sunday,  and  pounces  them 
down  one  after  the  other  upon  the  seat  of  the  pew  ;  — 
'hese  were  now  grown  into  blooming  young  ladies.  And 
they  swept  by  me  in  the  vestibule  of  the  church,  with  a 
flutter  of  robes  and  a  grace  of  motion  that  fairly  made 
ny  heart  twitter  in  my  bosom.  I  know  nothing  thai 
wings  home  upon  a  man  so  quick  the  consciousness  of 


224  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

jicreasing  years,  as  to  find  the  little  prattling  girls,  thai 
were  almost  babies  in  his  boyhood,  become  dashing  la 
dies  ;  and  to  find  those  whom  he  used  to  look  on  pat 
ronizingly  and  compassionately  —  thinking  they  were 
little  girls  —  grown  to  such  maturity  that  the  mere 
rustle  of  their  silk  dress  will  give  him  a  twinge,  and 
their  eyes,  if  he  looks  at  them,  make  him  unaccount 
ably  shy. 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school-buildings  ;  I 
traced  the  names  that  we  had  cut  upon  the  fence  ;  but 
the  fence  had  grown  brown  with  age,  and  was  nearly 
rotted  away.  Upon  the  beech-tree  in  the  hollow  behind 
the  school,  the  carvings  were  all  overgrown.  It  must 
have  been  vacation,  if  indeed  there  was  any  school  at 
all ;  for  I  could  see  only  one  old  woman  about  the  prem 
ises,  and  she  was  hanging  out  a  dishcloth  to  dry  in  the 
sun.  I  passed  on  up  the  hill,  beyond  the  buildings 
where,  in  the  boy-days,  we  built  stone  forts  with  bas 
tions  and  turrets  ;  but  the  farmers  had  put  bastions  and 
turrets  into  their  cobble-stone  walls.  At  the  orchard- 
fence  I  stopped  and  looked  —  from  force,  I  believe,  of 
old  habit  —  to  see  if  any  one  were  watching,  and  then 
.eaped  over,  and  found  my  way  to  the  early  apple-tree ; 
but  the  fruit  had  gone  by.  It  seemed  very  daring  in 
me,  even  then,  to  walk  so  boldly  in  the  forbidden 
ground. 

But  the  old  head-master,  who  forbade  it,  was  dead 


NOON.  226 

ind  Russell  and  Burgess,  and  I  know  not  how  many 
others,  who  in  other  times  were  culprits  with  me,  were 
dead  too.  When  I  passed  back  by  the  school,  I  lin 
gered  to  look  up  at  the  windows  of  that  corner-room 
where  I  had  slept  the  sound,  healthful  sleep  of  boyhood 
and  where,  too,  I  had  passed  many,  many  wakeful  hours, 
thinking  of  the  absent  Bella  and  of  my  home. 

How  small  seem  now  the  great  griefs  of  boy 
hood  !  Light,  floating  clouds  will  obscure  the  sun  that 
is  but  half  risen  ;  but  let  him  be  up  mid-heaven,  and  the 
cloud  that  then  darkens  the  land  must  be  thick  and 
heavy  indeed. 

The  tears  started  from  my  eyes ;  was  not  such 

a  cloud  over  me  now  ? 


College. 

SCHOOLMATES  slip  out  of  sight  and  knowledge,  and 
are  forgotten  ;  or  if  you  meet  them,  they  bear  another 
character ;  the  boy  is  not  there.  It  is  a  new  acquaint 
ance  that  you  make,  with  nothing  of  your  fellow  upon 
the  benches  but  the  name.  Though  the  eye  and  face 
jleave  to  your  memory,  and  you  meet  them  afterward 
\nd  think  you  have  met  a  friend,  the  voice  or  the  action 
irill  break  down  the  charm,  and  you  find  only  —  an- 
>ther  man. 

But  with  your  classmates  in  that  later  school,  where 
10* 


226  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

form  and  character  were  both  nearer  ripeness,  and 
ivhere  knowledge,  labored  for  together,  bred  the  first 
manly  sympathies,  it  is  different.  And  as  you  meet 
them  or  hear  of  them,  the  thought  of  their  advance 
makes  a  measure  of  your  own,  —  it  makes  a  measure 
of  the  Now. 

You  judge  of  your  happiness  by  theirs ;  of  your  prog 
ress  by  theirs ;  and  of  your  prospects  by  theirs.  If  one 
is  happy,  you  seek  to  trace  out  the  way  by  which  he  has 
wrought  his  happiness;  you  consider  how  it  differs  from 
your  own ;  and  you  think  with  sighs  how  you  might  pos 
sibly  have  wrought  the  same,  but  now  it  has  escaped. 
If  another  has  won  some  honorable  distinction,  you 
fall  to  thinking  how  the  man  —  your  old  equal,  as  you 
thought,  upon  the  college-benches  —  has  outrun  you. 
h  pricks  to  effort,  and  teaches  the  difference  between 
now  and  then.  Life  with  all  its  duties  and  hopes  gath 
ers  upon  your  Present  like  a  great  weight,  or  like  a 
storm  ready  to  burst.  It  is  met  anew  ;  it  pleads  more 
strongly ;  and  action,  that  has  been  neglected,  rises  be 
fore  you,  a  giant  of  remorse. 

Stop  not,  loiter  not,  look  not  backward,  if  you  would 
be  among  the  foremost !  The  great  Now  —  so  quick, 
fx>  broad,  so  fleeting  —  is  yours  ;  in  an  hour  it  will  be 
long  to  the  Eternity  of  the  Past.  The  temper  of  Life 
is  to  be  made  good  by  big,  honest  blows  ;  stop  striking. 
ind  you  will  do  nothing ;  strike  feebly,  and  you  will  dn 


NOON.  227 

almost  as  little.  Success  rides  on  every  hour ;  grapple 
Jt,  and  you  may  win ;  but  without  a  grapple  it  will  never 
go  with  you.  Work  is  the  weapon  of  honor,  and  who 
lacks  the  weapon  will  never  triumph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us,  —  all  scattered  now. 
I  meet  one  here  and  there  at  wide  distances  apart ;  and 
we  talk  together  of  old  days,  and  of  our  present  work 
and  life,  —  and  separate.  Just  so  ships  at  sea,  in 
murky  weather,  will  shift  their  course  to  come  within 
hailing  distance,  and  compare  their  longtitude,  and  — 
part.  One  I  have  met  wandering  in  Southern  Italy 
dreaming  as  I  was  dreaming,  —  over  the  tomb  of  Virgil 
by  the  dark  grotto  of  Posilippo.  It  seemed  strange 
to  talk  of  our  old  readings  in  Tacitus  there  upon  classic 
ground  ;  but  we  did  ;  and  ran  on  to  talk  of  our  lives  ; 
and  sitting  down  upon  the  promontory  of  Baiae,  look 
ing  off  upon  that  blue  sea,  as  clear  as  the  classics,  we 
told  each  other  our  respective  stories.  And  two  nights 
after,  upon  the  quay,  in  sight  of  Vesuvius,  which  shed  a 
lurid  glow  upon  the  sky,  that  was  reflected  from  the 
white  walls  of  the  Hotel  de  Russie,  and  from  the  broad 
'ava  pavements,  we  parted,  —  he  to  wander  among  the 
isles  of  the  JEgean,  and  I  to  turn  northward. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among  those  mys- 
'serious  figures  that  crowd  the  foyer  of  the  French  opera 
ipon  a  night  of  the  masked  ball.  I  saw  a  familiar  face 
I  followed  it  with  my  eye,  until  I  became  convinced 


J28  REVERIES   t)F  A    BACHELOR. 

He  did  not  know  me,  until  I  named  his  old  seat  upon 
he  bench  of  the  division-room,  and  the  hard-faced 

Tutor  G .  Then  we  talked  of  the  old  rivalries, 

and  Christmas  jollities,  and  of  this  and  that  one,  whom 
we  had  come  upon  in  our  wayward  tracks,  while  the 
black-robed  grisettes  stared  through  their  velvet  masks ; 
nor  did  we  tire  of  comparing  the  old  memories  with  the 
unearthly  gayety  of  the  scene  about  us,  until  daylight 
broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  England  I  camt 
not  long  since  upon  another:  he  was  hale  and  hearty 
and  pushing  his  lawyer  work  with  just  the  same  ner 
vous  energy  with  which  he  used  to  recite  a  theorem 
of  Euclid.  He  was  father,  too,  of  a  couple  of  stout, 
curly-pated  boys  ;  and  his  good  woman,  as  he  called 
her,  appeared  a  sensible,  honest,  good-natured  lady.  I 
must  say  that  I  envied  him  his  wife,  much  more  than 
I  had  envied  my  companion  of  the  opera  —  his  domino. 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to  drop  into  the 
college  chapel  of  a  Sunday.  There  were  the  same 
hard  oak  benches  below,  and  the  lucky  fellows  who 
enjoyed  a  corner  seat  were  leaning  back  upon  the  rail, 
after  the  old  fashion.  The  tutors  were  perched  up  in 
their  side-boxes,  looking  as  prim  and  serious  and  im 
oortant  as  ever.  The  same  stout  Doctor  read  the  hymn 
•n  the  same  rhythmical  way ;  and  he  prayed  the  same 
orayer,  for  (I  thought)  the  same  old  sort  of  sinners 


NOON.  220 

A.8  I  shut  my  eyes  to  listen,  it  seemed  as  if  the  inter 
mediate  years  had  all  gone  out ;  and  that  I  was  on  my 
DWH  pew-bench,  and  thinking  out  those  little  schemes 
for  excuses,  or  for  effort,  which  were  to  relieve  me,  or 
to  advance  me,  in  my  college  world. 

There  was  a  pleasure  —  like  the  pleasure  of  dream 
ng  about  forgotten  joys — in  listening  to  the  Doctor's 
sermon :  he  began  in  the  same  half  embarrassed,  half 
awkward  way;  and  fumbled  at  his  Bible-leaves,  and 
the  poor  pinched  cushion,  as  he  did  long  before.  But 
as  he  went  on  with  his  rusty  and  polemic  vigor,  the 
poetry  within  him  would  now  and  then  warm  his  soul 
into  a  burst  of  fervid  eloquence,  and  his  face  would 
glow,  and  his  hand  tremble,  and  the  cushion  and  the 
Bible-leaves  be  all  forgot,  in  the  glow  of  his  thought, 
until  with  a  half  cough,  and  a  pinch  at  che  cushion, 
he  fell  back  into  his  strong  but  tread-mill  argumenta 
tion. 

In  the  corner  above  was  the  stately,  white-haired 
professor,  wearing  the  old  dignity  of  carriage,  and  a 
smile  as  bland  as  if  the  years  had  all  been  playthings ; 
and  had  I  seen  him  in  his  lecture-room,  I  dare  say  I 
should  have  found  the  same  suavity  of  address,  the 
same  marvellous  currency  of  talk,  and  the  same  infinite 
Domposure  over  the  exploding  retorts. 

Near  him  was  the  silver-haired  old  gentleman,  — 
vith  a  very  astute  expression,  —  who  used  to  have  an 


23U  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

odd  habit  of  tightening  his  cloak  about  hu>  nethei 
limbs.  I  could  not  see  that  his  eye  was  any  the  less 
bright ;  nor  did  he  seem  less  eager  to  catch  at  the 
handle  of  some  witticism,  or  bit  of  satire,  —  to  the  poor 
student's  cost.  I  remembered  my  old  awe  of  him,  I 
must  say,  with  something  of  a  grudge ;  but  I  had  got 
fairly  over  it  now.  There  are  sharper  griefs  in  life 
than  a  professor's  talk. 

Farther  on  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark-haired  man, 
who  looked  as  if  he  were  always  near  some  explosive- 
electric  battery,  or  upon  an  insulated  stool.  He  was,  I 
believe,  a  man  of  fine  feelings ;  but  he  had  a  way  of 
reducing  all  action  to  dry,  hard,  mathematical  system, 
with  very  little  poetry  about  it.  I  know  there  was  not 
much  poetry  in  his  problems  in  physics,  and  still  less  in 
his  half-yearly  examinations.  But  I  do  not  dread  them 
now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still  the  aged 
head  of  the  kind  and  generous  old  man,  who,  in  my 
day,  presided  over  the  college ;  and  who  carried  with 
him  the  affections  of  each  succeeding  class.  —  added  to 
their  respect  for  his  learning.  This  seems  a  higher 
triumph  to  me  now  than  it  seemed  then.  A  strong 
mind,  or  a  cultivated  mind  may  challenge  respect ;  but 
here  is  needed  a  noble  one  to  win  affection. 

A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the  president's 
seat ;  but  he  was  one  whom  I  had  known,  and  been 


NOUN.  231 

proud  to  know.  His  figure  was  bent  and  thin,  —  the 
very  figure  that  an  old  Flemish  master  would  have 
chosen  for  a  scholar.  His  eye  had  a  kind  of  piercing 
lustre,  as  if  it  had  long  been  fixed  on  books  ;  and  his 
expression  —  when  unrelieved  by  his  affable  smile  — 
was  that  of  hard  midnight  toil.  With  all  his  polish  of 
mind,  he  was  a  gentleman  at  heart,  and  treated  us 
always  with  a  manly  courtesy  that  is  not  forgotten. 
But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged  below,  — 

O  ' 

four  hundred  men  and  boys,  — there  was  not  one  with 
whom  to  join  hands,  and  live  back  again.  Their  griefs, 
joys,  and  toil  were  chaining  them  to  their  labor  of 
life.  Each  one  in  his  thought,  coursing  over  a  world 
as  wide  as  my  own,  —  how  many  thousand  worlds  of 
thought  upon  this  one  world  of  ours  ! 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  the  corridors  of  the  old 
Athenaeum,  thinking  of  that  first  fearful  step  when  the 
faces  were  new,  and  the  stern  tutor  was  strange,  and 
the  prolix  Livy  so  hard.  I  went  up  at  night  and 
skulked  around  the  buildings  when  the  lights  were 
blazing  from  all  the  windows,  and  they  were  busy  with 
their  tasks,  —  plain  tasks,  and  easy  tasks,  because 
they  are  certain  tasks.  Happy  fellows,  thought  I,  who 
have  only  to  do  what  is  set  before  you  to  be  done.  But 
the  time  is  coining,  and  very  fast,  when  you  must  not 
only  do,  but  know  what  to  do.  The  time  is  comin« 
when  in  place  of  your  one  master  you  will  have  a  thou- 


REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

and  masters.  —  masters  of  duty,  of  business,  of 
ore.  and  of  grieC  —  giving  you  harder  learn 
af  them  than  any  of  your  Fluxions. 

wffl  pass,  and  the  Noon  will  come  —  hot 


Tke  Packti  of  BeO*. 

1  HAT*  not  forgotten  that  packet  of  Beila;  I  did 
not  once  forget  it.  And  when  I  saw  Lilly,  —  now  the 
grown-up  Lilly, —  happy  in  her  household,  and  blithe  as 
when  she  was  a  maiden,  she  gave  it  to  roe.  She  told 
me  too  of  Bella's  illness,  and  of  her  suffering,  and  of 
her  manner,  when  she  put  the  little  packet  in  her 
hand  -  for  Cbosm  Pant*  But  this  I  will  not  repeat,  — 
I  cannot. 

I  know  not  why  h  was,  but  I  shuddered  at  the  men 
tion  of  her  name.  There  are  some  who  will  talk  at 
table,  and  in  their  gossip,  of  dead  friends ;  I  wonder 
how  they  do  it  ?  For  myself,  when  the  grave  has  dosed 
fes  gates  on  the  laces  of  those  I  lore,  however  busy 
my  mournful  thought  may  be,  the  tongue  is  silent.  I 
lame  their  names ;  it  shocks  me  to  bear  them 
It  seems  like  tearing  open  half-healed  wounds, 
with  harsh,  worldly  noise  the  sweet  sleep 
«*  death. 

IkncdBdfa.     I  know  not  how  I  loved  her,  whetLef 


NOON. 

M>  A  lover,  or  as  a  husband  lores  a  wile ;  I  oolj 
this,  —  I  always  loved  her.  She  was  so  gentle,  so  beau 
tiful,  so  confiding,  that  I  never  once  thought  but  that 
the  whole  world  loved  her  as  well  as  I.  There  was 
onlj  one  thing  I  never  told  to  Bella :  I  would  tell  her 
of  all  my  grief,  and  of  all  ray  joys ;  I  would  tell  her  my 
hopes,  my  ambitious  dreams,  my  disappointments,  my 
anger,  and  my  dislikes ;  but  I  never  told  her  bow  nraefc 
I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that  it  was  need- 
lev.  But  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  telling 
Bella,  on  some  winter's  day.  •*  Bella,  it  is  winter !  "  — 
or  of  whispering  to  her  on  some  balmy  day  of  August 
-  Bella,  it  is  summer ! "  —  as  of  telling  her,  after  she 
had  grown  to  girlhood,  u  Bella,  I  love  you!* 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in  the  old  coun 
tries:  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in  which  she  told  me  all  that 
bbe  had  been  doing,  and  bow  she  had  thought  of  me 
when  she  rambled  over  the  woods  where  we  had  ram 
bled  together.  She  had  written  two  or  three  other  let 
ters,  Lilly  told  me,  but  they  had  never  reached  me.  1 
nad  told  her.  too,  of  all  that  made  my  happiness ;  1 
wrote  her  about  the  sweet  girl  I  had  seen  on  shipboard, 
tnd  bow  I  met  her  afterward,  and  what  a  happy  bone 
we  passed  down  in  Devon.  I  even  told  her  of  the 
ttrange  dream  I  had,  in  which  Isabel  seemed  to  be  n 
England,  and  to  turn  away  from  me  sadly  because  I 
•ailed  -  Carry  • 


234  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great  world  of 
Paris,  writing  as  I  would  write  to  a  sister  ;  and  I  told 
her,  too,  of  the  sweet  Roman  girl,  Enrica,  —  of  her 
brown  hair,  and  of  her  rich  eyes,  and  of  her  pretty  Car 
nival  dresses.  And  when  I  missed  letter  after  letter,  I 
told  her  that  she  must  still  write  her  letters,  or  some 
little  journal,  and  read  it  to  me  when  I  came  back, 
thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  sit  under  the  trees 
by  her  father's  house,  and  listen  to  her  tender  voice 
going  through  that  record  of  her  thoughts  and  fears. 
Alas,  how  our  hopes  betray  us ! 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary  about  the  time  that  her 
father  fell  sick.  "  It  is,"  said  she  to  Lilly,  when  she 
gave  it  to  her,  "  what  I  would  have  said  to  Cousin  Paul, 
if  he  had  been  here." 

It  begins :"...!  have  come  back  now  to  father's 
house;  I  could  not  leave  him  alone,  for  they  told  me 
he  was  sick.  I  found  him  not  well ;  he  was  very  glad 
to  see  me,  and  kissed  me  so  tenderly  that  I  am  sure, 
Cousin  Paul,  you  would  not  have  said,  as  you  used  to 
say,  that  he  was  a  cold  m_n  !  I  sometimes  read  to  him 
sitting  in  the  deep  library-window,  (you  remember  it,) 
ivhere  we  used  to  nestle  out  of  his  sight  at  dusk.  He 
'annot  read  any  more. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little  Carry  you 
ipeak  of;  but  do  you  know  you  did  not  describe  her  tr 


NOON. 

me  at  all ;  will  you  not  tell  me  if  she  has  dark  hair,  or 
light ;  or  if  her  eyes  are  blue,  or  dark  like  mine  ?  Is 
she  good;  did  she  not  make  ugly  speeches,  or  grow 
peevish,  in  tliose  long  days  upon  the  ocean  ?  How  I 
would  have  liked  to  have  been  with  you  on  those  clear 
starlit  nights,  looking  off  upon  the  water !  But  then  I 
think  that  you  would  not  have  wished  me  there,  and 
that  you  did  not  once  think  of  me  even.  This  makes 
me  sad  ;  yet  I  know  not  why  it  should,  for  I  always 
liked  you  best  when  you  were  happy :  and  I  am  sure 
you  must  have  been  happy  then.  You  say  you  shall 
never  see  her  after  you  have  left  the  ship :  you  must 
not  think  so,  Cousin  Paul ;  if  she  is  so  beautiful  and 
fond  as  you  tell  me,  your  own  heart  will  lead  you  in  her 
«  way  some  time  again ;  I  feel  almost  sure  of  it. 

"  Father  is  getting  more  and  more  feeble, 

wid  wandering  in  his  mind  ;  this  is  very  dreadful ;  he 
calls  me  sometimes  by  my  mother's  name  ;  and  when  I 
say,  '  It  is  Isabel,'  he  says,  '  What  Isabel  ? '  and  treats 
me  as  if  I  was  a  stranger.  The  physician  shakes  his 
head  when  I  ask  him  of  father.  Oh,  Paul !  if  he  should 
die,  what  could  I  do  ?  I  should  die  too  ;  I  know  I 
should.  Who  would  there  be  to  care  for  me  ?  Lilly  is 
married,  and  Ben  is  far  off,  and  you,  Paul,  whom  I  love 
better  than  either,  are  a  long  way  rrom  me.  But  Goo 
fe  good,  and  he  will  spare  my  father 


.-.z  17.:-  -     /  .i   j.-_ _.— _ .  =. 

-   C  --  KM!_    /^_  _ 

•  -       oO  ^UB  •••C  SBEB  ^gUB  jW  BBK  ViBfYT 


:.  •  .  —  :  -•-.  T    i- 


:    .   -     v  :.-.;-      -    .,;   ..   i 


-  :•:-    - 


:  v  -     -  -  ;   TL-  .:  ----_   v---   ;     .  -    v   :'  :   :    ,      .  > 


:     .  :/r     -"       -•;    _  •:•: 


,r    :..    -:   :- 


.   .      .       _      -  -  - 


I  kmam  jam  Wart;  k  is 

--.    ------- 

:..=  i     :..-  I'-.    .:    _  -.- 


AOGJL 
:  Romgiri.    Be 


Bat  Italy  is  far  away.  Paul;  I  ca 

i;  I  led  as  if  Carry  was  a  sister  MOT  :  I 
fed  so  of  Ac  Bamm  giri;  I  do  not  wart  to  fed  »L 


r:-    . .  r .  - -.    ,;.::._: 


-,     ::    I.-  :-•.!:_-    :  _:    i:   :i  = 


REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

much.  '  Father,'  said  I, '  you  cannot  read  ;  it  is  almost 
dark.' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,'  said  he  ;  '  Isabel,  I  can  read  now.  And 
I  brought  it;  he  kept  my  hand  a  long  while,  then  he 
opened  the  book ;  it  was  a  book  about  death. 

"  I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  he  could  not  read 
without. 

"  '  Isabel,  dear,'  said  he,  '  put  the  candle  a  little 
nearer.'  But  it  was  close  beside  him  even  then. 

"  'A  little  nearer,  Isabel,'  repeated  he,  and  his  voice 
was  very  faint,  and  he  grasped  my  hand  hard. 

—  "  '  Nearer,  Isabel !  —  nearer  ! ' 

"  There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor  father  was 
dead  !  Oh !  Paul,  Paul !  pity  me.  I  do  not  know  but  I 
am  crazed.  It  does  not  seem  the  same  world  it  was. 
And  the  house  and  the  trees!  oh,  they  are  very  dismal ! 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin  Paul  ;  life 
would  not  be  so  very,  very  blank  as  it  is  now.  Lilly  is 
kind ;  I  thank  her  from  my  heart.  But  it  is  not  her 
"ather  who  is  dead ! 

"I    am    calmer   now ;    I   am   staying  with 

Lilly.  The  world  seems  smaller  than  it  did ;  but 
heaven  seems  a  great  deal  larger ;  there  is  a  place  for 
is  all  there,  Paul,  if  we  only  seek  it.  They  tell  me  you 
are  coming  home  :  1  am  glad.  You  will  not  like,  per 
haps,  to  come  away  from  that  pretty  Enrica  you  speak 


NOON. 

:>f ;  but  do  so,  Paul.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  se\j  ciearei 
ilinr,  I  did,  and  I  talk  bolder.  The  girlish  Isabel  you 
will  not  find,  for  I  am  much  older,  and  my  air  is  more 
grave  ;  and  this  suffering  has  made  me  feeble,  very 
feeble. 

'•  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write  ;  but  I  must 

tell  you  that  I  have  just  found  out  who  your  Carry  is. 
Years  ago,  when  you  were  away  from  home,  I  was  at 
school  with  her.  We  were  always  together.  I  wonder 
I  could  not  have  found  her  out  from  your  description  ; 
but  I  did  not  even  suspect  it.  She  is  a  dear  girl,  and  is 
worthy  of  all  your  love.  I  have  seen  her  once  since 
you  have  met  her;  we  talked  of  you.  She  spoke  kindly, 
very  kindly  ;  more  than  this  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  I  do 
not  know  more.  Ah,  Paul,  may  you  be  happy :  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  but  a  little  while  to  live. 

"  It  is  even  so,  my  dear  Cousin  Paul :  I 

shall  write  but  little  more  ;  my  hand  trembles  now. 
But  I  am  ready.  It  is  a  glorious  world  beyond  this ;  I 
know  it  is  !  And  there  we  shall  meet.  I  did  hope  to 
see  you  once  again,  and  to  hear  your  voice  speaking  to 
me  as  you  used  to  speak.  But  I  shall  not.  Life  is  too 
(rail  with  me.  I  seem  to  live  wholly  now  in  the  world 
»\ here  I  am  going;  there  is  my  mother,  and  my  father, 
ind  my  little  brother  ;  we  shall  meet,  I  know  we  shall 
meet ! 


240  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"The  last.  Paul.       Never  again  in   this 

world !  I  am  happy,  very  happy.  You  will  corne  to 
me.  I  can  write  no  more.  May  good  angels  guard 
you,  and  bring  you  to  heaven ! " 

Shall  I  go  on  ? 

But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private  griefs  do 
not  break  the  force  and  the  weight  of  the  great  Pres 
ent  A  life  —  at  best  the  half  of  it  —  is  before  me.  It 
is  to  be  wrought  out  with  nerve  and  work.  And, 
blessed  be  God  !  there  are  gleams  of  sunlight  upon  it 
That  sweet  Carry  —  doubly  dear  to  me  now  that  she  is 
joined  with  my  sorrow  for  the  lost  Isabel  —  shall  be 
sought  for ! 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  before  me,  the 
NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows  of  EVENING  lengthen 
upon  the  land. 


EVENING  241 


in. 

Evening. 

fT^lIE  Future  is  a  great  land:  how  the  lights  and  the 
-•-  shadows  throng  over  it — bright  and  dark,  slow 
and  swift ! 

Pride  and  Ambition  build  up  great  castles  on  its 
plains, —  great  monuments  on  the  mountains  that  reach 
heavenward,  and  dip  their  tops  in  the  blue  of  Eternity ! 
Then  comes  an  earthquake  —  the  earthquake  of  disap 
pointment,  of  distrust,  or  of  inaction —  and  lays  them 
low.  Gaping  desolation  widens  its  breaches  every 
where  ;  the  eye  is  full  of  them,  and  can  see  nothing 
beside.  By-and-by  the  sun  peeps  forth  —  as  now  from 
behind  yonder  cloud  —  and  reanimates  the  soul. 

Fame  beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heavens  ;  and  joy 
lends  a  halo  to  the  vision.  A  thousand  resolves  stir 
your  heart ;  your  hand  is  hot  and  feverish  for  action  ; 
your  brain  works  madly,  and  you  snatch  here,  and  you 
snatch  there,  in  the  convulsive  throes  of  your  delirium 
Perhaps  you  see  some  earnest,  careful  plodder,  once  far 
behind  you,  now  toiling  slowly  but  surely  over  the  plain 
of  life,  until  he  seems  near  to  grasping  those  bril'iant 
11 


REVERIES   Ul<-  A    BACHELOR. 

phantoms  which  dance  along  the  horizon  of  the  future 
and  the  sight  stirs  your  soul  to  frenzy,  and  you  bound 
on  after  him  with  the  madness  of  a  fever  in  your  veins. 
But  it  was  by  no  such  action  that  the  fortunate  toiler 
has  won  his  progress.  His  hand  is  steady  ;  his  brain  is 
cool ;  his  eye  is  fixed  and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  land  ;  a  man  cannot  go  round 
it  in  a  day  ;  he  cannot  measure  it  with  a  bound  ;  he  can 
not  bind  its  harvests  into  a  single  sheaf.  It  is  wider 
than  the  vision,  and  has  no  end. 

Yet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  second  by  sec 
ond,  the  hard  Present  is  elbowing  us  off  into  that  great 
land  of  the  Future.  Our  souls  indeed  wander  to  it  as 
to  a  home-land  ;  they  run  beyond  time  and  space,  be 
yond  planets  and  suns,  beyond  far-off  suns  and  comets, 
until,  like  blind  flies,  they  are  lost  in  the  blaze  of  im 
mensity,  and  can  only  grope  their  way  back  to  our  earth 
and  our  time  by  the  cunning  of  instinct. 

Cut  out  the  Future,  even  that  little  Future  which  is 
the  Evening  of  our  life,  and  what  a  fall  into  vacuity ! 
Forbid  those  earneet  forays  over  the  borders  of  Now, 
and  on  what  spoils  would  the  soul  live  ? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there,  and  to  weave 
^very  day  the  passing  life  into  the  coming  life  —  so 
closely  that  I  may  be  unconscious  of  the  joining.  And 
if  so  be  that  I  am  able,  I  would  make  the  whole  piecf 
near  fair  proportions  and  i  jst  figures,  like  those  tapes 


EVENING.  243 

tries  on  which  nuns  work  by  inches,  and  finish  with 
their  lives ;  or  like  those  grand  frescos  which  poet-art 
ists  have  wrought  on  the  vaults  of  old  cathedrals,  gaunt 
and  colossal,  —  appearing  mere  daubs  of  carmine  and 
azure,  as  they  lay  upon  their  backs,  working  out  a 
hand's-breadth  at  a  time,  —  but  when  complete,  show 
ing  —  symmetrical  and  glorious  ! 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wander  to  those  glitter 
ing  heights  where  Fame  sits,  with  plumes  waving  in 
Kephyrs  of  applause ;  there  belong  to  it  other  appetites, 
which  range  wide  and  constantly  over  the  broad  Fu 
ture-land.  We  are  not  merely  working,  intellectual  ma 
chines,  but  social  puzzles,  whose  solution  is  the  work  of 
a  life.  Much  as  hope  may  lean  toward  the  intoxicating 
joy  of  distinction,  there  is  another  leaning  in  the  soul, 
deeper  and  stronger,  toward  those  pleasures  which  the 
heart  pants  for,  and  in  whose  atmosphere  the  affections 
bloom  and  ripen. 

The  first  may  indeed  be  uppermost ;  it  may  be  noisJ 
est ;  it  may  drown  with  the  clamor  of  mid-day  the  nicer 
sympathies.  But  all  our  day  is  not  mid-day;  and  al* 
our  life  is  not  noise.  Silence  is  as  strong  as  the  soiu  , 
and  there  is  no  tempest  so  wild  with  blasts  but  has  a 
wilder  lull.  There  lies  in  the  depth  of  every  man's 
soul  a  mine  of  affection,  which  from  time  to  time  wil' 
burn  with  the  seething  heat  of  a  volcano,  and  heave  up 
'ava-like  monuments  through  all  the  cold  strata  of  his 
commoner  nature. 


£44  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELC-R. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings  ;  he  may  paint 
them  dimly  ;  he  may  crowd  them  out  of  his  sailing- 
chart,  where  he  only  sets  clown  the  harbors  for  traffic ; 
yet  in  his  secret  heart  he  will  map  out  upon  the  great 
country  of  the  Future  fairy  islands  of  love  and  of  joy. 
There  he  will  be  sure  to  wander,  when  his  soul  is  lost 
in  those  quiet  and  hallowed  hopes  which  take  hold  on 
heaven. 

Love  only  unlocks  the  door  upon  that  Futurity  where 
the  isles  of  the  blessed  lie  like  stars.  Affection  is  the 
stepping-stone  to  God.  The  heart  is  our  only  measure 
of  infinitude.  The  mind  tires  with  greatness ;  the 
heart  —  never.  Thought  is  worried  and  weakened  in 
its  flight  through  the  immensity  of  space,  but  Love 
soars  around  the  throne  of  the  Highest  with  added 
blessing  and  strength. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but  with  me 
the  heart  is  a  readier  and  quicker  builder  of  those  fab 
rics  which  stresv  the  great  country  of  the  Future  than 
the  mind.  They  may  not,  indeed,  rise  so  high  as  the 
dizzy  pinnacles  that  ambition  loves  to  rear ;  but  they  lie 
like  fragrant  islands  in  a  sea  whose  ripple  is  a  continu 
ous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the  Evening, 
which  is  already  begun,  —  tossed  as  I  am  with  the  toils 
of  the  Past,  and  bewildered  with  the  vexations  of  the 
Present,  —  my  affections  are  the  architect  that  build  up 


EVENING.  245 

the  ftiture  refuge.  And  in  fancy  at  least  I  will  build  it 
boldly,  saddened  it  may  be  by  the  chance  shadows  of 
evening  ;  but  through  all  I  will  hope  for  a  sunset,  wher 
the  day  ends,  glorious  with  crimson  and  gold. 

Carry. 

I  SAID  that,  harsh  and  hot  as  was  the  Present,  there 
were  joyous  gleams  of  light  playing  over  the  Future. 
How  else  could  it  be  when  that  fair  being  whom  I  met 
first  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  and  whose  name  even  is 
hallowed  by  the  dying  words  of  Isabel,  is  living  in  the 
same  world  with  me  ?  Amid  all  the  perplexities  that 
haunt  me  as  I  wander  from  the  present  to  the  future, 
the  thought  of  her  image,  of  her  smile,  of  her  last  kind 
adieu,  throws  a  dash  of  sunlight  upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why  ?  Is  it  not  very  idle  ?  Years  have  passed 
since  I  have  seen  her;  I  do  not  even  know  where  she 
may  be.  What  is  she  to  me  ? 

My  heart  whispers,  "  Very  much  !  "  —  but  I  do  not 
listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods.  She  is  a  woman,  a 
beautiful  woman  indeed,  whom  I  have  known  once  — 
pleasantly  known  ;  she  is  living,  but  she  will  die,  or  she 
will  marry  :  1  shall  hear  of  it  by-and-by,  and  sigrh  per 
haps,  —  nothing  more.  Life  is  earnest  around  me, 
there  is  no  time  to  delve  in  the  past,  for  bright  thing? 
In  shed  radiance  on  the  future. 


46  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl  who  was  with  me  upon 
the  ocean,  and  think  she  is  dead.  This  manly  soul  is 
strong,  if  we  would  but  think  so  ;  it  can  make  a  puppet 
of  griefs,  and  take  down  and  set  up  at  will  the  symbols 
of  its  hope. 

—  But  no,  I  cannot ;  the  more  I  think  thus,  the  less 

really  think  thus.  A  single  smile  of  that  frail  girl  — 
when  I  recall  it  —  mocks  all  my  proud  purposes,  as  if 
without  her  my  purposes  were  nothing. 

Pshaw!  I  say,  it  is  idle  ;  and  I  bury  my  thought 

m  books,  and  in  long  hours  of  toil ;  but,  as  the  hours 
lengthen,  and  my  head  sinks  with  fatigue,  and  the  shad 
ows  of  evening  play  around  me,  there  comes  again  that 
sweet  vision,  saying  with  tender  mockery,  '•  Is  it  idle?" 
And  I  am  helpless,  and  am  led  away  hopefully  and  joy 
fully  toward  the  golden  gates  which  open  on  the  Fu 
ture. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours  when  the  man  is 
alone  and  away  from  his  working  thoughts.  At  mid 
day,  or  in  the  rush  of  the  world,  he  puts  hard  armor  on, 
that  reflects  all  the  light  of  such  joyous  fancies.  He 
.s  cold  and  careless,  and  ready  for  suffering  and  for 
fight. 

One  day  I  am  travelling.  I  am  absorbed  in  some 
present  cares,  thinking  out  some  plan  which  is  to  make 
easier  or  more  successful  the  voyage  of  life.  I  glance 
ipon  the  passing  scenery,  and  upon  new  faces,  with  thai 


EVENING.  241 

sareless  indifference  which  grows  upon  a  man  with 
years,  and  above  all  with  travel.  There  is  no  wife  to 
enlist  your  sympathies,  no  children  to  sport  with ;  my 
friends  are  few  and  scattered,  and  are  working  out  fairly 
what  is  before  them  to  do.  Lilly  is  living  here,  and 
Ben  is  living  there ;  their  letters  are  cheerful,  contented 
letters,  and  they  wish  me  well.  Griefs  even  have  grown 
light  with  wearing ;  and  I  am  just  in  that  careless  hu 
mor  as  if  I  said,  Jog  on,  old  world,  — jog  on !  And  the 
end  will  come  along  soon,  and  we  shall  get  —  poor 
devils  that  we  are — just  what  we  deserve. 

But  on  a  sudden  my  eyes  rest  on  a  figure  that  I  think 
I  know.  Now  the  indifference  flies  like  mist ;  and  my 
heart  throbs,  and  the  old  visions  come  up.  I  watch  her, 
us  if  there  were  nothing  else  to  be  seen.  The  form  is 
hers  ;  the  grace  is  hers;  the  simple  dress, —  so  neat,  so 
tasteful ! — that  is  here  too.  She  half  turns  her  head  :  it 
is  the  face  that  I  saw  under  the  velvet  cap  in  the  Park 
of  Devon  ! 

I  do  not  rush  forward ;  I  sit  as  if  I  were  in  a  trance 
I  watch  her  every  action,  —  the  kind  attentions  to  hei 
mother,  who  sits  beside  her,  —  her  naive  exclamations 
as  we  pass  some  point  of  surpassing  beauty.  It  seems 
is  if  a  new  world  were  opening  to  me  ;  yet  I  cannot  tell 
vhy.  I  keep  my  place,  and  think,  and  gaze.  I  tear  the 
japer  I  hold  in  my  hand  into  shreds.  I  play  with  mj 
?atch-chain,  and  twist  the  seal  until  it  is  near  breaking. 


£48  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

I  take  out  my  watch,  look  at  it,  and  put  it  back  ;  yet  I 
Cannot  tell  the  hour. 

It  is  she,  I  murmur  ;  I  know  it  is  Carry  ! 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy  is  broken ; 
yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesitation  —  a  faltering  as  it 
were  between  the  present  life  and  the  future  —  that  I 
approach.  She  knows  me  on  the  instant,  and  greets  me 
kindly;  as  Bella  wrote  —  very  kindly.  Yet  she  shows 
a  slight  embarrassment,  a  sweet  embarrassment,  that  I 
treasure  in  my  heart  more  closely  even  than  the  greet 
ing.  I  change  my  course,  and  travel  with  them ;  now 
we  talk  of  the  old  scenes,  and  two  hours  seem  to  have 
made  with  me  the  difference  of  half  a  lifetime. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her,  never  hoping 
to  meet  again.  She  was  then  a  frail  girl ;  she  is  now 
just  rounding  into  womanhood.  Her  eyes  are  as  dark 
and  deep  as  ever ;  the  lashes  that  fringe  them  seem  to 
me  even  longer  than  they  were.  Her  color  is  as  rich, 
her  forehead  as  fair,  her  smile  as  sweet,  as  they  were 
before ;  only  a  little  tinge  of  sadness  floats  upon  her  eye, 
like  the  haze  upon  a  summer  landscape.  I  grow  bold 
to  look  upon  her,  and  timid  with  looking.  We  talk  of 
Bella  :  she  speaks  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  shade  of 
sadness  on  her  face  gathers,  as  when  a  summer  mist 
obscures  the  sun.  I  talk  in  monosyllables  ;  I  can  com 
mand  no  other.  And  there  is  a  look  of  sympathy  in 
^er  eye,  when  I  speak  thus,  that  binds  my  soul  to  het 


EVENING.  249 

as  no  smiles  could  do.  What  can  draw  the  heart  into 
the  fulness  of  love  so  quick  as  sympathy  ? 

But  this  passes  ;  we  must  part :  she  for  her  home, 
and  I  for  that  broad  home  that  has  been  mine  so  long  — 
the  world.  It  seems  broader  to  me  than  ever,  and 
colder  than  ever,  and  less  to  be  wished  for  than  ever. 
AL  new  book  of  hope  is  sprung  wide  open  in  my  life :  a 
hope  of  home  ! 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time,  not  far  off,  in  the  city 
where  I  am  living.  I  look  forward  to  that  time  as  at 
school  I  used  to  look  for  vacation  ;  it  is  a  point  d'appui 
for  hope,  for  thought,  and  for  countless  journeyings  into 
the  opening  future.  Never  did  I  keep  the  dates  better, 
never  count  the  days  more  carefully,  whether  for  bonds 
to  be  paid,  or  for  dividends  to  fall  due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a  dream.  I 
am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare  ;  the  hours  are  very  short 
with  her,  and  very  Song  away.  She  receives  me  kindly 
—  always  very  kindly ;  she  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
kind.  But  is  it  anything  more  ?  This  is  a  greedy 
mature  of  ours ;  and  when  sweet  kindness  flows  upon 
us,  we  want  more.  I  know  she  is  kind ;  and  yet  in 
place  of  being  grateful,  I  am  only  covetous  of  an  excess 
of  kindness. 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely,  —  ah,  no,  — 
lrust  a  woman  for  that !  But  wnat  have  I,  or  what  SLIT 
I.  *o  ask  a  return  ?  She  is  pure  and  gentle  as  an  angel : 
11* 


260  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  I,  alas,  only  a  poor  soldier  in  our  world  -  fight 
against  the  Devil !  Sometimes,  in  moods  of  vanity,  I 
call  up  what  I  fondly  reckon  my  excellencies  or  deserts, — 
a  sorry,  pitiful  array,  that  makes  me  shamefaced  when 
I  meet  her.  And  in  an  instant  I  banish  them  all.  And 
I  think,  that,  if  I  were  called  upon  in  some  high  court 
of  justice  to  say  why  I  should  claim  her  indulgence,  or 
her  love,  I  would  say  nothing  of  my  sturdy  effort  to 
beat  down  the  roughnesses  of  toil,  —  nothing  of  such 
manliness  as  wears  a  calm  front  amid  the  frowns  of  the 
world,  —  nothing  of  little  triumphs  in  the  every-day 
fight  of  life ;  but  only,  I  would  enter  the  simple  plea  — 
this  heart  is  hers  ! 

She  leaves ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of  what  was 
seething  within  me :  how  I  curse  my  folly !  She  is 
gone,  and  never  perhaps  will  return.  I  recall  in  despair 
her  last  kind  glance.  The  world  seems  blank  to  me. 
She  does  not  know,  perhaps  she  does  not  care,  *f  I 
love  her.  Well,  I  will  bear  it,  I  say.  But  I  cannot 
bear  it.  Business  is  broken  :  books  are  blurred  ;  some 
thing  remains  undone  that  fate  declares  must  be  done. 
Not  a  place  can  I  find,  but  her  sweet  smile  gives  to 
it  either  a  tinge  of  gladness,  or  a  black  shade  of  deso 
lation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant  books  ;  the  fire 
ts  burning  cheerfully  ;  my  dog  looks  up  earnestly  when 
I  speak  to  him ;  but  it  will  never  do  I  Her  image 


EVENING.  261 

jwceps  away  all  thesrj  comforts  in  a  flood.  I  fling  down 
my  book ;  I  turn  my  back  upon  my  dog ;  the  fire  hisses 
and  sparkles  in  mockery  of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  bruin  :  I  will  write 
to  her,  I  say.  And  a  smile  floats  over  my  face,  —  a 
smile  of  hope,  ending  in  doubt.  I  catch  up  my  pen  — 
my  trusty  pen  ;  and  the  clean  sheet  lies  before  me. 
The  paper  could  not  be  better,  nor  the  pen.  I  have 
written  hundreds  of  letters ;  it  is  easy  to  write  letters ; 
but  now  it  is  not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  I  begin  again,  and  get  on 
a  little  farther  ;  then  cross  it  out.  I  try  again,  but  can 
write  nothing.  I  fling  down  my  pen  in  despair,  and 
burn  the  sheet,  and  go  to  my  library  for  some  old  sour 
treatise  of  Shaftesbury  or  Lyttleton  ;  and  say,  —  talking 
to  myself  all  the  while,  —  let  her  go  !  She  is  beautiful, 
but  I  am  strong ;  the  world  is  short ;  we  —  I  and  my 
dog,  and  my  books,  and  my  pen  —  will  battle  it  through 
bravely,  and  leave  enough  for  a  tombstone. 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  the  tears  start ;  it  is  all  false 
laying  !  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury  across  the  room,  and 
take  up  my  pen  again.  It  glides  on  and  on,  as  my  hope 
glows,  and  I  tell  her  of  our  first  meeting,  and  of  our 
hours  in  the  ocean  twilight,  and  of  our  unsteady  step 
ping  on  the  heaving  deck,  and  of  that  parting  in  the 
noise  of  London,  and  of  my  joy  at  seeing  her  in  th« 
pleasant  country,  and  of  my  grief  afterward.  And  then 


262  REVERIES   JF  A    BACHELOR. 

I  mention  Bella,  —  her  friend  and  mine, —  and  the 
tears  flow ;  and  then  I  speak  of  our  last  meeting,  and 
of  my  doubts  ;  and  of  this  very  evening ;  and  how  I 
could  not  write,  and  abandoned  it ;  and  then  felt  some 
thing  within  me  that  made  me  write  and  tell  her  — 
ill  !  —  "  That  my  heart  was  not  my  own,  but  was  wholly 
aers  ,  and  that  if  she  would  be  mine  —  I  would  cherisl 
her  and  love  her  always  !  " 

Then  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness  —  a  strange,  tumult 
uous  happiness,  into  which  doubt  is  creeping  from  time 
to  time,  bringing  with  it  a  cold  shudder.  I  seal  the 
letter,  and  carry  it  —  a  great  weight  —  for  the  mail  It 
seems  as  if  there  could  be  no  other  letter  that  day  and 
as  if  all  the  coaches  and  horses,  and  cars,  and  boats 
were  specially  detailed  to  bear  that  single  sheet.  It  is 
a  great  letter  for  me  ;  my  destiny  lies  in  it. 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night ;  it  is  a  tossing  sleep 
One  time,  joy,  sweet  and  holy  joy,  comes  to  my  dreams, 
and  an  angel  is  by  me ;  another  time,  the  angel  fades, 
the  brightness  fades,  and  I  wake  struggling  with  fear. 
For  many  nights  it  is  so,  until  the  day  comes  on  which 
[  am  looking  for  a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the  letter  which 
ae  gives  me  —  although  it  contains  no  promissory  notes, 
aor  moneys,  nor  deeds,  nor  articles  of  trade  —  is  yet  to 
bave  a  greater  influence  upon  my  life  and  upon  my 
"hture,  than  all  the  letters  he  has  ever  brought  to  me 


EVENING.  263 

Before.  But  I  do  not  show  him  this  ;  nor  do  I  let  him 
see  the  clutch  with  which  I  grasp  it.  1  bear  it,  as  if  it 
were  a  great  and  fearful  burden,  to  my  room.  I  lock 
the  door,  and  having  broken  the  seal  with  a  quivering 
hand,  read:  — 

The  Letter. 

"  PAUL,  —  for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now,  —  J 
know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  letter  gave  me 
great  joy  ;  but  it  gave  me  pain  too.  I  cannot  —  will 
not  doubt  what  you  say :  I  believe  that  you  love  me 
better  than  I  deserve  to  be  loved  ;  and  I  know  that  I 
am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind  praises.  But  it  is  not 
this  that  pains  me  ;  for  I  know  that  you  have  a  generous 
heart,  and  would  forgive,  as  you  always  have  forgiven, 
any  weakness  of  mine.  I  am  proud  too,  very  proud, 
to  have  won  your  love  ;  but  it  pains  me  —  more  perhaps 
than  you  will  believe  —  to  think  that  I  cannot  write 
back  to  you  as  I  would  wish  to  write ;  alas,  never ! " 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and,  with  my 
hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit  gazing  upon  the  glowing 
coals,  and  breathing  quick  and  loud.  The  dream  then 
is  broken  ! 

Presently  I  read  again :  — 


254  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

"  You  know  that  my  father  died  before  we  had 

ever  met.  He  had  an  old  friend  who  had  come  from 
England,  and  who  in  early  life  had  done  him  some 
great  service,  which  made  him  seem  like  a  brother. 
This  old  gentleman  was  my  godfather,  and  called  me 
daughter.  When  my  father  died,  he  drew  me  to  his 
side  and  said,  '  Carry,  I  shall  leave  you,  but  my  old 
friend  will  be  your  father ; '  and  he  put  my  hand  in  his 
and  said,  '  I  give  you  my  daughter.' 

"  This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than  myself; 
but  we  were  much  together,  and  grew  up  as  brother  and 
sister.  I  was  proud  of  him,  for  he  was  tall  and  strong, 
and  every  one  called  him  handsome.  He  was  as  kind, 
too,  as  a  brother  could  be  ;  and  his  father  was  like  my 
own  father.  Every  one  said  and  believed  that  we 
would  one  day  be  married  ;  and  my  mother  and  my 
new  father  spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did  Laurence,  for 
that  is  my  friend's  name. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more,  Paul ;  for  when 
I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had  promised  that  we  would  one 
day  be  man  and  wife.  Laurence  has  been  much  in 
England  ;  and  I  believe  he  is  there  now.  The  old  gen 
tleman  treats  me  still  as  a  daughter,  and  talks  of  the 
time  when  I  shall  come  and  live  with  him.  The  letters 
of  Laurence  are  very  kind  ;  and  though  he  does  not  talk 
so  much  of  our  marriage  as  he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think, 
Oecause  he  regards  it  as  so  certain. 


EVENING.  26£ 

1  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before,  but  I  have 
feared  to  tell  you  ;  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  too  selfish 
to  tell  you.  And  now  what  can  I  say  ?  Laurence 
seems  most  to  me  like  a  brother;  and  you,  Paul  — 
but  I  must  not  go  on.  For  if  I  marry  Laurence,  as  fate 
seems  to  have  decided,  I  will  try  and  love  him  better 
than  all  the  world. 

"  But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love  me  as  you 
once  loved  Bella  ?  You  say  my  eyes  are  like  hers,  and 
that  my  forehead  is  like  hers :  will  you  not  believe  that 
my  heart  is  like  hers  too  ? 

"  Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter,  I  have  shed 
them  as  well  as  you.  I  can  write  no  more  now. 

"Adieu." 

I  sit  long,  looking  upou»the  blaze ;  and  when  I  rouse 
myself  it  is  to  say  wicked  things  against  destiny.  Again 
all  the  future  seems  very  blank.  I  cannot  love  Carry 
as  I  loved  Bella  ;  she  cannot  be  a  sister  to  me ;  she 
must  be  more,  or  nothing  !  Again,  I  seem  to  float  singly 
on  the  tide  of  life,  and  see  all  around  me  in  cheerful 
groups.  Everywhere  the  sun  shines,  except  upon  my 
own  cold  forehead.  There  seems  no  mercy  in  heaven, 
and  no  goodness  for  me  upon  earth. 

I  write,  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the  letter.  But 
it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I  forget  myself —  in  the 
vhirl  of  my  misfortunes  —  to  the  utterance  of  re 
proaches. 


266  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet  and  gentle 
She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches,  deeply  hurt.  But  with  a 
touching  kindness,  of  which  I  am  not  worthy,  she  cred 
its  all  my  petulance  to  my  wounded  feeling ;  she  soothes 
me,  but  in  soothing  only  wounds  the  more.  I  try  to 
believe  her  when  she  speaks  of  her  unworthiness,  but  I 
cannot. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or  of  interest 
pass  on  like  dull,  grating  machinery.  Tasks  are  met 
and  performed,  with  strength  indeed,  but  with  no  cheer 
Courage  is  high,  as  I  meet  the  shocks  and  trials  of  the 
world  ;  but  it  is  a  brute,  careless  courage,  that  glories  in 
opposition.  I  laugh  at  any  dangers,  or  any  insidious 
pitfalls  ;  what  are  they  to  me  ?  What  do  I  possess 
which  it  will  be  hard  to  lose  ?  My  dog  keeps  by  me 
my  toils  are  present ;  my  food  is  ready ;  my  limbs  are 
strong  :  —  what  need  for  more  ? 

The  months  slip  by ;  and  the  cloud  that  floated  over 
my  evening  sun  passers. 

Laurence,  wandering  abroad  and  writing  to  Caroline 
as  to  a  sister,  writes  more  than  his  father  could  have 
wished.  He  has  met  new  faces,  very  sweet  faces,  and 
Dne  which  shows  through  the  ink  of  his  later  letters 
very  gorgeously.  The  old  gentleman  does  not  like  to 
lose  thus  his  little  Carry,  and  he  writes  back  rebuke. 
But  Laurence,  with  the  letters  of  Caroline  before  him 
"~r  data,  throws  himself  upon  his  sister's  kindness  and 


EVENING.  257 

charity.  It  astonishes  not  a  little  the  old  gentleman  to 
find  his  daughter  pleading  in  such  strange  way  for  the 
son.  "And  what  will  you  do  then,  my  Carry  ?  "  the  old 
man  says. 

"  Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir ;  and  love  you 

and  Laurence  more  than  ever  !  " 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says,  "  Carry 
Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that  wild  fellow,  Laurence!" 

Now  the  letters  are  different !  Now  they  are  full  of 
hope,  dawning  all  over  the  future  sky.  Business,  and 
care,  and  toil  glide  as  if  a  spirit  animated  them  all  ;  it 
is  no  longer  cold  machine-work,  but  intelligent  and 
hopeful  activity'.  The  sky  hangs  upon  you  lovingly, 
and  the  birds  make  music  that  startles  you  with  its  fine 
ness.  Men  wear  cheerful  faces  ;  the  storms  have  a  kind 
pity  gleaming  through  all  their  wrath. 

The  days  approach  when  you  can  call  her  yours.  For 
she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother  has  said  it ;  and  the  kind 
tW  gentleman,  who  says  he  will  still  be  her  father,  has 
said  it  too  ;  and  they  have  all  welcomed  you  —  won  by 
her  story  —  with  a  cordiality  that  has  made  your  cup 
full  to  running  over.  Only  one  thought  comes  up  to 
obscure  your  joy :  Is  it  real  ?  or,  if  real,  are  you  worthy 
to  enjoy  ?  Will  you  cherish  and .  love  always,  as  you 
have  promised,  that  angel  who  accepts  your  word,  an.i 
rests  her  happiness  on  your  faith  ?  Are  there  not  harsh 
4i-alities  in  your  nature  which  you  fear  may  sometime 


258  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

make  her  regret  that  she  gave  herself  to  your  love  aud 
charity  ?  And  those  friends  who  watch  over  her  as  the 
apple  of  their  eye.  can  you  always  meet  their  tenderness 
and  approval  for  your  guardianship  of  their  treasure  ? 
Is  it  not  a  treasure  that  makes  you  fearful  as  well  as 
joyful  ? 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile ;  her  kindness,  her 
goodness,  her  modesty  will  not  let  you  remember  it. 
She  forbids  such  thoughts ;  and  you  yield  such  obedi 
ence  as  you  never  yielded  even  to  the  commands  of  a 
mother.  And  if  your  business  and  your  labor  slip  by 
partially  neglected,  what  matters  it  ?  What  is  interest, 
or  what  is  reputation,  compared  with  that  fulness  of 
your  heart  which  is  now  ripe  with  joy  ? 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes,  and  you  live  as  if 
you  were  in  a  dream.  You  think  well  and  hope  well 
for  all  the  world.  A  flood  of  charity  seems  to  radiate 
from  all  around  you.  And  as  you  sit  beside  her  in  the 
twilight,  on  the  evening  before  the  day  when  you  will 
call  her  yours,  and  talk  of  the  coming  hopes,  and  of  the 
soft  shadows  of  the  past ;  and  whisper  of  Bella's  love, 
and  of  that  sweet  sister's  death  ;  and  of  Laurence,  a 
new  brother,  coining  home  joyful  with  his  bride  ;  and 
'ay  your  cheek  to  hers, — life  seems  as  if  it  were  aJl  d;iy 
uid  as  if  there  could  be  no  night ! 

The  marriage  passes,  and  she  is  yours,  —  yours  foi 


EVENING.  269 


New  Travel. 

AGAIJS  I  am  upon  the  sea,  but  not  alone.  She,  whom 
f  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  is  there  beside  mo. 
Again  I  steady  her  tottering  step  upon  the  deck  ;  once 
it  was  a  drifting,  careless  pleasure  ;  now  the  pleasure  is 
holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt  —  as  the  storms  gathered,  and 
night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed  madly,  and  great  waves 
gathering  swift  and  high  came  down  like  slipping 
mountains,  and  spent  their  force  upon  the  quivering 
vessel  —  was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is  so  no  longer.  In 
deed  I  hardly  know  fear ;  for  how  can  the  tempests 
harm  her  1  Is  she  not  too  good  to  suffer  any  of  the 
wrath  of  heaven  ? 

And  in  nights  of  calm  —  holy  nights  —  we  lean  over 
the  ship's  side,  looking  down,  as  once  before,  into  the 
dark  depths,  and  murmur  again  snatches  of  ocean  song, 
and  talk  of  those  we  love  ;  and  we  peer  among  the  stars, 
ivhic'.,  seem  neighborly,  and  as  if  they  were  the  homes 
of  friends.  And  <?:>  the  great  ocean-swells  come  rock 
ing  under  us,  and  carry  us  up  and  clown  along  the  val 
leys  and  the  hills  of  water,  they  geem  like  deep  pulsa- 
lions  of  the  great  heart  of  nature,  heaving  us  forward 
/ward  the  goal  of  life,  and  to  the  gates  of  heaven  ! 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon  the  horizon 


260  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false  friends,  with  the  sua 
glittering  on  their  sails  ;  and  then  shift  their  course,  and 
bear  away  —  with  their  bright  sails  turned  to  spots  of 
shadow.  We  watch  the  long-winged  birds  skimming 
the  waves  hour  after  hour,  like  pleasant  thoughts  ;  now 
dashing  before  our  bows,  and  then  sweeping  behind 
until  they  are  lost  in  the  hollows  of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before ;  but  the 
regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruitless  resolves  do  not 
come  to  trouble  me  now.  It  is  the  future,  which  has 
become  as  level  as  the  sea ;  and  she  is  beside  me,  the 
sharer  in  that  future,  to  look  out  with  me  upon  the  joy 
ous  sparkle  of  water,  and  to  count  with  me  the  dazzling 
ripples  that  lie  between  us  and  the  shore.  A  thousand 
pleasant  plans  come  up,  and  are  abandoned,  like  the 
waves  we  leave  behind  us  ;  a  thousand  other  joyous 
plans  dawn  upon  our  fancy,  like  the  waves  that  glitter 
before  us.  We  talk  of  Laurence  and  his  bride,  whom 
we  are  to  meet ;  we  talk  of  her  mother,  who  is  even  now 
watching  the  winds  that  waft  her  child  over  the  ocean  ; 
we  talk  of  the  kindly  old  man,  her  godfather,  who  gave 
her  a  father's  blessing ;  we  talk  low,  and  in  the  twilight 
hours,  of  Isabel  —  who  sleeps. 

At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a  fair  night 
over  the  western  waters  which  we  have  passed,  we  sec 
before  us  the  low,  blue  line  of  the  shores  of  Cornwall 
ind  Devon.  In  the  night,  shadowy  ships  glide  past  ua 


EVENING.  261 

*rith  gleaming  lanterns  ;  and  in  the  morning  we  see  tli£ 
yellow  cliffs  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  standing  out 
from  the  land  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our  pilot  London, 
with  its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has  not  the  same  charms 
that  it  once  had  ;  that  roar  and  crowd  is  good  to  make 
a  man  forget  his  griefs,  forget  himself,  and  stupefy  him 
with  amazement.  We  are  in  no  need  of  such  forget- 
fulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan  river  that 
glides  by  Hampton  Court;  and  we  toil  up  Richmond 
Hill,  to  look  together  upon  that  scene  of  water  and 
meadow,  —  of  leafy  copses,  and  glistening  villas,  —  of 
brown  cottages,  and  clustered  hamlets,  —  of  solitary 
oaks,  and  loitering  herds,  —  all  spread  like  a  veil  of 
beauty  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Thames.  But  we  cannot 
linger  here,  nor  even  under  the  glorious  old  boles  of 
Windsor  Forest ;  but  we  hurry  on  to  that  sweet  county 
of  Devon,  made  green  with  its  white  skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks  where  we  have  loi 
tered  before  ;  and  the  sleek  deer  gaze  on  us  with  their 
liquid  eyes,  as  they  gazed  before.  The  squirrels  sport 
among  the  boughs  as  fearless  as  ever ;  and  some  wan 
dering  puss  pricks  her  long  ears  at  our  steps,  and 
bounds  off  along  the  hedge-rows  to  her  burrow.  Agaii 
I  see  Carry  in  her  velvet  riding-cap,  with  the  white 
plume ;  and  I  meet  her,  as  I  met  her  before,  under  the 
princely  trees  that  skirt  the  northern  avenue.  I  recaL 


REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

the  evening  when  I  sauntered  out  at  the  park-gates 
and  gained  a  blessing  from  the  porter's  wife,  and 
dreamed  that  strange  dream; — now,  the  dream  seems 
more  real  than  my  life.  "God  bless  you!"  said  the 
woman  again. 

—  "  Aye,  old  lady,  God   has   blessed  me  ! "  —  and  I 
fling  her  a  guinea,  not  as  a  gift,  but  as  a  debt. 

The  bland  farmer  lives  yet;  he  scarce  knows  me, 
until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout  around  his  oatfield  at  the 
tail  of  his  long-stilted  plough.  I  find  the  old  pew  in 
the  parish  church.  Other  holly-sprigs  are  hirag  now ; 
and  1  do  not  doze,  for  Carry  is  beside  me.  The  curate 
drawls  the  service,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  listen ;  and  I 
make  the  responses  with  an  emphasis  that  tells  more,  I 
fear,  for  my  joy  than  for  my  religion.  The  old  groom 
at  the  mansion  in  the  Park  has  not  forgotten  the  hard 
riding  of  other  days,  and  tells  long  stories  (to  which  I 
love  to  listen)  of  the  old  visit  of  Mistress  Carry,  when 
she  followed  the  hounds  with  the  best  of  the  English 
lasses. 

—  "  Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud,  for  not  a  prettier 
face,  or  a  kinder  heart,  has  been  in  Devon  since  Mis 
tress  Carry  left  us  !  " 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full  of  memories, 
ind  pleasant  as  are  the  twilight  evenings  upon  the  ter 
race,  we  must  pass  over  to  the  mountains  of  Switzer 
land.     There  we  are  to  meet  Laurence. 


EVENING. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence  of  the  Juras ; 
and  as  we  journey  over  the  hills  between  Dole  and  the 
border  line,  looking  upon  the  rolling  heights  shrouded 
with  pine-trees,  and  down  thousands  of  feet,  at  the  very 
road-side,  upon  the  cottage- roofs,  and  emerald  valleys, 
where  the  dun  herds  are  feeding  quietly,  she  is  lost  in 
admiration.  At  length  we  come  to  that  point  above  tte 
Jttle  town  of  Gex,  from  which  you  see,  spread  out  be 
fore  you,  the  meadows  that  skirt  Geneva,  the  placid  sur 
face  of  Lake  Leman,  and  the  rough,  shaggy  mountains 
of  Savoy ;  and  far  behind  them,  breaking  the  horizon 
with  snowy  cap,  and  with  dark  pinnacles,  Mont  Blanc, 
and  the  Needles  of  Chamouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  valley  below  the  little  town 
of  Ferney,  where  stands  the  deserted  chateau  of  Vol 
taire  ;  and  beyond,  upon  the  shores  of  the  lake,  the  old 
home  of  De  Stae'l ;  and  across,  with  its  white  walls 
reflected  upon  the  bosom  of  the  water,  the  house  where 
Byron  wrote  the  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon."  Among  the 
grouping  roofs  of  Geneva  we  trace  the  dark  cathedral, 
and  the  tall  hotels  shining  on  the  edge  of  the  lake. 
And  I  tell  of  the  time  when  I  tramped  down  through 
\onder  valley,  with  my  future  all  visionary  and  broken, 
ind  drank  the  splendor  of  the  scene,  only  as  a  quick 
relief  to  the  monotony  of  my  solitary  life. 

"  And  now,  Carry,  with  your  hand  locked  La 

Tune,  and  your  heart  mine,  yonder  lake  sleeping  in  the 


REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOH. 

sun,  and  the  snowy  mountains  with  their  rosy  hue,  seem 
like  the  smile  of  Nature,  bidding  us  be  glad  ! " 

Laurence  is  at  Geneva :  he  welcomes  Carry  as  he 
would  welcome  a  sister.  He  is  a  noble  fellow,  and  tells 
me  much  of  his  sweet  Italian  wife ;  and  presents  me  to 
the  smiling,  blushing  —  Enrica !  She  has  learned  Eng 
lish  now  ;  she  has  found,  she  says,  a  better  teacher  than 
ever  I  was.  Yet  she  welcomes  me  warmly,  as  a  sister 
might;  and  we  talk  of  those  old  evenings  by  the  blaz 
ing  fire,  and  of  the  one-eyed  Maestro,  as  children,  long 
separated,  might  talk  of  their  school-tasks  and  of  their 
teachers.  She  cannot  tell  me  enough  of  her  praises  of 
Laurence,  and  of  his  noble  heart.  "  You  were  good," 
she  says,  "  but  Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and  her  deep 
liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I  could  ever  have  left 
Rome  ? 

Do  you  indeed  wonder,  Carry  ? 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy,  to  that  mar 
vellous  valley  which  lies  under  the  shoulder  of  Mont 
Blanc  ;  and  we  wander  over  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  pick 
Alpine  roses  from  the  edge  of  the  frowning  glacier 
We  toil  at  nightfall  up  to  the  monastery  of  the  Great 
St.  Bernard,  where  the  new-forming  ice  crackles  in  the 
narrow  footway,  and  the  cold  moon  glistens  over  wastes 
af  snow,  and  upon  the  windows  of  the  dark  Hospice. 
^Lgain,  we  are  among  the  granite  heights,  whose  ieag(# 


EVENING.  26£ 

are  filled  with  ice,  upon  the  Grimsel.  The  pond  is  dark 
and  cold  ;  the  paths  are  slippery  ;  the  great  glacier  of 
Aar  sends  down  icy  breezes,  and  the  echoes  ring  from 
rock  to  rock,  as  if  the  ice-god  answered.  And  yet  we 
neither  suffer  nor  fear. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Meyringen  we  part  from  Lau 
rence :  he  goes  northward,  by  Grindenwald  and  Thun, 
thence  to  journey  westward,  and  to  make  for  the  Roman 
girl  a  home  beyond  the  ocean.  Enrica  bids  me  go  on 
to  Rome  :  she  knows  that  Carry  will  love  its  soft,  warm 
air,  its  ruins,  its  pictures  and  temples,  better  than  these 
cold  valleys  of  Switzerland.  And  she  gives  me  kind 
messages  for  her  mother,  and  for  Cesare  ;  and  should 
we  be  in  Rome  at  the  Easter  season,  she  bids  us  re 
member  her,  when  we  listen  to  the  Miserere,  and  when 
we  see  the  great  Chiesa  on  fire,  and  when  we  saunter 
upon  the  Fincian  Hill,  —  and  remember  that  it  is  her 
home. 

We  follow  them  with  our  eyes  as  they  go  up  the  steep 
height  over  which  falls  the  white  foam  of  the  clattering 
Rcichenbach  ;  and  they  wave  their  hands  toward  us. 
ani  disappear  upon  the  little  plateau  which  stretches 
toward  the  crystal  Rosenlaui,  and  the  tall,  still  Engel- 
Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them  ! 

As   we   journey  on    toward  that  wonderful  pass  of 

Spliigun,  I  recall  by  the  way,  upon  the  heights  and  iu 
12 


266  RETRIES  OF  A    BAJHELOR. 

the  valleys,  the  spots  where  I  lingered  years  before 
Here,  I  plucked  a  flower ;  there,  I  drank  from  that  cold, 
yellow  glacier  water ;  and  here,  upon  some  rock  over 
looking  a  stretch  of  broken  mountains,  hoary  with  their 
eternal  frosts,  I  sat  musing  upon  that  very  Future 
which  is  with  me  now.  But  never,  even  when  the  ice 
genii  were  most  prodigal  of  their  fancies  to  the  wan 
derer,  did  I  look  for  more  joy,  or  a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon  the  Alpine 
paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  rolling  along  under  the 
chestnuts  and  lindens  that  skirt  the  banks  of  Como. 
We  recall  that  sweet  story  of  Manzoni,  and  I  point  out, 
as  well  as  I  may,  the  loitering  place  of  the  bravi,  and 
the  track  of  poor  Don  Abbondio.  We  follow  in  the 
path  of  the  discomfited  Renzi,  to  where  the  dainty  spire 
and  pinnacles  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan  glisten  against 
the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venice  ;  its  water-streets  and  pal 
aces  have  long  floated  in  her  visions.  In  the  bustling 
activity  of  our  own  country,  and  in  the  quiet  fields  of 
England,  that  strange,  half-deserted  capital,  lying  in  the 
Adriatic,  has  taken  the  strongest  hold  upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua  and  Verona  behind  us,  and  find 
mrselves  upon  a  soft  spring  noon  upon  the  end  of  the 
'.ron  road  which  stretches  across  the  lagoon  toward  Ven- 
'ce.  With  the  hissing  of  steam  in  the  ear,  it  is  hard  to 
•Jiink  of  the  wonderful  city  we  are  approaching.  Bu» 


EVENING.  267 

is  we  escape  from  the  carriage,  and  set  our  feet 
Jown  into  one  of  those  strange,  hearse-like,  ancient 
boats,  with  its  sharp  iron  prow,  and  listen  to  the  melo 
dious,  rolling  tongue  of  the  Venetian  gondolier;  —  as 
\ve  see  rising  over  the  watery  plain  before  us  —  all  glit 
tering  in  the  sun  —  tall,  square  towers  with  pyramidal 
tops,  and  clustered  domes,  and  minarets,  and  sparkling 
roofs  lifting  from  marhle  walls,  —  all  so  like  the  old 
paintings  ;  —  and  as  we  glide  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
floating  wonder  under  the  silent  working  oar  of  our 
now  silent  gondolier  ;  —  as  we  ride  up  swiftly  under  the 
deep,  broad  shadows  of  palaces,  and  see  plainly  the  play 
of  the  sea-water  in  the  crevices  of  the  masonry,  and 
turn  into  narrow  rivers  shaded  darkly  by  overhanging 
walls,  hearing  no  sound  but  of  voices,  or  the  swaying  of 
the  water  against  the  houses,  —  we  feel  the  presence  of 
the  place.  And  the  mystic  fingers  of  the  Past,  grap 
pling  our  spirits,  lead  them  away,  willing  and  rejoicing 
captives,  through  the  long  vista  of  the  ages  that  are 
gone. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance,  —  rapt  bj  the  witchery  of  the 
scene  into  dream.  This  is  her  Venice  ;  nor  have  all  the 
visions,  that  played  upon  her  fancy,  been  equal  to  the 
enchanting  presence  of  this  hour  of  approach. 

Afterward  it  becomes  a  living  thing,  stealing  upon 
the  affections  and  upon  the  imagination  by  a  thousand 
5oy  advances.  We  wander,  under  the  warm  Italian  sun- 


268  REVERIES  OF  A  BAG  HE:  OP 

light  to  the  steps  from  which  rolled  the  whit*1  head  ol 
poor  Marino  Faliero.  The  gentle  Carry  can  new  thrus' 
her  ungloved  hand  into  the  terrible  Lion's  mouth.  We 
enter  the  salon  of  the  fearful  Ten,  and  peep  through  the 
half-opened  door  into  the  cabinet  of  the  more  fearful 
Three.  We  go  through  the  deep  dungeons  of  Car- 
i*agnob  and  of  Carrara  ;  and  we  instruct  the  willirg 
gondolier  to  push  his  dark  boat  under  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs  ;  and,  with  Rogers's  poem  in  our  hand,  glide  up 
U>  the  prison-door,  and  read  of 

"  that  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life!  " 

I  sail,  listening  to  nothing  but  the  clip  of  the  gondo 
lier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words,  fast  under  the  palace- 
door  which  closed  that  fearful  morning  on  the  guilt  and 
shame  of  Bianca  Capello.  Or,  with  souls  lit  up  by  the 
scene  into  a  buoyancy  that  can  scarce  distinguish  be 
tween  what  is  real  and  what  is  merely  written,  we  chase 
the  anxious  step  of  the  forsaken  Corinna ;  or  seek 
among  the  veteran  palaces  the  casement  of  the  old 
Brabantio,  —  the  chamber  of  Desdemona,  —  the  house 
of  Jessica ;  and  trace  among  the  strange  Jew  money 
changers,  who  yet  haunt  the  Rialto,  the  likeness  of  the 
bearded  Sky-lock.  We  wander  into  stately  churches, 


EVENING.  269 

brushing  over  grass  or  tell-tale  flowers  that  grow  in  the 
court,  and  find  them  clamp  and  cheerless ;  the  incense 
rises  murkily,  and  rests  in  a  thick  cloud  over  the  altars, 
and  over  the  paintings  ;  the  music,  if  so  be  that  the 
organ-notes  are  swelling  under  the  roof,  is  mournful)} 
Jaintive. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido,  to  gladden 
our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  land  and  green  things,  and 
we  pass  none  upon  the  way  save  silent  oarsmen,  with 
barges  piled  high  with  the  produce  of  their  gardens, 
pushing  their  way  down  toward  the  floating  city.  And 
upon  the  narrow  island  we  find  Jewish  graves,  half  cov 
ered  by  drifted  sand  ;  and  from  among  them  watch  the 
sunset  glimmering  over  a  desolate  level  of  water.  As 

O  O 

we  Hide  back,  lights  lift  over  the  Lagoon,  and  double 

o  o  o 

along  the  Guideca  and  the  Grand  Canal.  The  little 
neighbor  isles  will  have  their  company  of  lights  dan- 
ting  in  the  water ;  and  from  among  them  will  rise  up 
against  the  mellow  evening  sky  of  Italy,  gaunt,  unlighted 
bouses. 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no  harmful  dew  with 

f~>  O 

it.  I  stroll,  with  her  hand  within  my  arm,  —  a$  once  upon 
the  sea,  and  in  the  English  Park,  and  in  the  home 
land,  —  over  that  great  square  which  lies  before  the  pal- 
ice  of  St.  Mark's.  The  white  moon  is  riding  in  the 
middle  heaven  like  a  globe  of  silver  ;  the  gondoliers 

O  O 

stride  over  the  echoing  stones ;  and  their  lo"g,  black 


270  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR 

shadows,  stretching  over  the  pavement,  or  shaking  upon 
the  moving  water,  seem  like  great  funereal  plumes  wav 
ing  over  the  bier  of  Venice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of  thought  and 
fancy  to  feed  upon  in  the  after-years,  we  wander  to 
Rome. 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  maestro,  and  am  met  with  cor. 
dial  welcome  by  the  mother  of  the  pretty  Enrica.  The 
Count  has  gone  to  the  Marches  of  Ancona.  Lame  Pie- 
tro  still  shuffles  around  the  boards  at  the  Lepre,  and 
the  flower-sellers  at  the  corner  bind  me  a  more  brilliant 
bouquet  than  ever  for  a  new  beauty  at  Rome.  As  we 
ramble  under  the  broken  arches  of  the  great  aqueduct 
stretching  toward  Frascati,  I  tell  Carry  the  story  of  my 
trip  in  the  Apennines,  and  we  search  for  the  pretty  Car- 
lotta.  But  she  is  married,  they  tell  us,  to  a  Neapolitan 
guardsman.  In  the  spring  twilight  we  wander  upon 
those  heights  which  lie  between  Frascati  and  Albano, 
and,  looking  westward,  see  that  glorious  view  of  the 
Campagna  which  can  never  be  forgotten.  But  beyond 
khe  Campagna,  and  beyond  the  huge  hulk  of  St.  Peter's, 
heaving  injo  the  sky  from  the  middle  waste,  we  see  — 
or  fancy  we  see — a  glimpse  of  the  sea  which  stretches 
•.ut  and  on  to  the  land  we  love  better  than  Rome.  And 
in  fancy  we  build  up  that  home  which  shall  belong  to  us 
on  the  return, —  a  home  that  has  slumbered  long  in  the 
Future,  and  which,  now  that  the  future  has  come,  lies 
Cairlv  before  me. 


EVENING.  £71 


Home. 

YEARS  seem  to  have  passed.  They  have  mellowed 
life  into  ripeness.  The  start,  and  change,  and  hot  am 
bition  of  youth  seem  to  have  gone  by.  A  calm  am 
joyful  quietude  has  succeeded.  That  future,  which  stiL 
lies  before  me,  seems  like  a  roseate  twilight  sinking  into 
a  peaceful  and  silent  night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage  near  that  where  Isabel* once 
lived.  The  same  valley  is  around  me  ;  the  same  brook 
rustles  and  loiters  under  the  gnarled  roots  of  the  over 
hanging  trees.  The  cottage  is  no  mock  cottage,  but  a 
substantial,  wide-spreading  cottage,  with  clustering  ga 
bles  and  ample  shade,  —  such  a  cottage  as  they  build 
upon  the  slopes  of  Devon.  Vines  clamber  over  it,  and 
the  stones  show  mossy  through  the  interlacing  climbers. 
There  are  low  porches  with  cosy  arm-chairs,  and  gen 
erous  oriels  fragrnwt  with  mignonette  and  the  blue  blos 
soming  violets. 

The  chimney-stacks  rise  high,  and  show  clear  against 
the  heavy  pine-trees  that  ward  off  the  blasts  of  winter 
The  dove-cote  is  a  habited  dove-cote,  and  the  purple- 
necked  pigeons  swoop  around  the  roofs  in  great  compa 
nies.  The  hawthorn  is  budding  into  its  June  fragrance 
along  all  the  lines  of  fence,  and  the  paths  are  trim  and 
"lean.  The  shrubs  —  our  neglected  azalias  and  rhodo- 


272  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

(lendrons  chiefest  among  them  —  stand  in  picturesque 
groups  upon  the  close-shaven  lawn. 

The  gateway  in  the  thicket  below  is  between  two 
mossy  old  posts  of  stone  ;  and  there  is  a  tall  hemlock, 
flanked  by  a  sturdy  pine,  for  sentinel.  Within  the  cot 
tage  the  library  is  wainscoted  with  native  oak  ;  and  my 
trusty  gun  hangs  upon  a  branching  pair  of  antlers.  M 
rod  and  nets  are  disposed  above  the  generous  book 
shelves ;  and  a  stout  eagle,  once  a  tenant  of  the  native 
woods,  sits  perched  over  the  central  alcove.  An  old- 
fashioned  mantel  is  above  the  brown  stone  jambs  of  the 
country  fireplace,  and  along  it  are  distributed  records 
of  travel,  —  little  bronze  temples  from  Rome,  the  pietro 
duro  of  Florence,  the  porcelain  busts  of  Dresden,  the 
rich  iron  of  Berlin,  and  a  cup  fashioned  from  a  stag's 
horn,  from  the  Black  Forest  by  the  Rhine. 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there  in  tempting  atti 
tude  ;  strewed  over  an  oaken  table  in  the  middle  are 
the  uncut  papers  and  volumes  of  tha-day  ;  and  upon  a 
lion's  skin  stretched  before  the  hearth  is  lying  another 
Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children  in  the  cot- 
Uge.  There  is  Jamie;  —  we  think  him  handsome,  for 
lie  has  the  dark  hair  of  his  mother,  and  the  same 
•jlack  eye  with  its  long,  heavy  fringe.  There  is  Carry 
—  little  Carry  I  must  call  her  now,  —  with  a  face  full  of 
gloc,  and  rosy  with  health.  Then  there  is  a  little  rogue 


EVENING.  27S 

Borne  two  years  old,  whom  we  call  Paul,  —  a  very  bad 
boy,  as  we  tell  him. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  far  more  dear 
to  me  ;  for  gratitude  has  been  adding,  year  by  year,  to 
love.  There  have  been  times  when  a  harsh  word  of 
mine,  uttered  in  the  fatigues  of  business,  has  touched 
her  ;  and  -I  have  seen  that  soft  eye  fill  with  tears  ;  and 
I  have  upbraided  myself  for  causing  her  one  pang.  But 
such  things  she  does  not  remember,  —  or  remembers 
only  to  cover  with  her  gentle  forgiveness. 

Laurence  and  P^nrica  are  living  near  us.  And  the 
old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's  godfather,  sits  with  me 
on  sunny  days  upon  the  porch,  and  takes  little  Paul 
upon  his  knee,  and  wonders  if  two  such  daughters  as 
Enrica  and  Carry  are  to  be  found  in  the  world.  At 
twilight  we  ride  over  to  see  Laurence  :  Jamie  mounts 
with  the  coachman ;  little  Carry  puts  on  her  wide- 
rimmed  Leghorn  for  the  evening  visit ;  and  the  old 
gentleman's  plea  for  Paul  cannot  be  denied.  The 
mother  too  is  with  us ;  and  old  Tray  comes  whisking 
along,  now  frolicking  before  the  horses'  heads,  and  then 
bounding  off  after  the  flight  of  some  belated  bird. 

Away  from  that  cottage  home  I  seem  away  from  life 
Within  it,  that  broad  and  shadowy  future,  which  lay 
before  me  in  boyhood  and  in  youth,  is  garnered,  like 
»  fine  mist  gathered  into  drops  of  crystal. 

And  when  away,  those  long  letters,  dating  from  thr 
12* 


274  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

tottage  home,  are  what  tie  me  to  life.  That  cherished 
wife  —  far  dearer  to  me  now  than  when  she  wrote  that 
first  letter,  which  seemed  a  dark  veil  between  me  and 
the  future  —  writes  me  now  as  tenderly  as  then.  She 
narrates,  in  her  delicate  way,  all  the  incidents  of  the 
home-life  ;  she  tells  me  of  their  rides,  and  of  their 
games,  and  of  the  new-planted  trees,  —  of  all  their 
sunny  days,  and  of  their  frolics  on  the  lawn  ;  she  tell 
me  how  Jamie  is  studying,  and  of  little  Carry's  beauty, 
growing  every  day,  and  of  roguish  Paul  —  so  like  his 
father  !  And  she  sends  me  a  kiss  from  each  of  them  ; 
and  bids  me  such  adieu,  and  such  "  God's  blessing,"  that 
it  seems  as  if  an  angel  guarded  me. 

But  this  is  not  all ;  for  Jamie  has  written  a  post 
script. 

•'  Dear  Father,"  he  says,  "  mother  wishes  me  to 

tell  you  how  I  am  studying.  What  would  you  think, 
father,  to  have  me  talk  in  French  to  you,  when  you 
some  back  ?  I  wish  you  would  come  back  though  ;  the 
hawthorns  are  coming  out,  and  the  apricot  under  my 
sdndow  is  all  full  of  blossoms.  If  you  should  bring  i;:t 
i  present,  as  you  almost  always  do,  I  would  like 
tishing-rod. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"JAMIE." 


EVENING.  276 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling  characters 
running  into  a  second  postscript. 

"  Why  don't  you  come,  papa ;  you  stay  too  long.  I 
have  ridden  the  pony  twice  ;  once  he  most  threw  me 
off.  This  is  all  from  CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen  too,  and  in  his  extraor 
dinary  effort  to  make  a  big  P,  has  made  a  very  big 
blot.  And  Jamie  writes  under  it,  —  "This  is  Paul's 
work,  Pa ;  but  he  says  it 's  a  love-blot,  only  he  loves 
you  ten  hundred  times  more." 

And  after  your  return,  Jamie  will  insist  that  you 
should  go  with  him  to  the  brook,  and  sit  down  with  him 
upon  a  tuft  of  the  brake,  to  fling  off  a  line  into  the 
eddies,  though  only  the  nibbling  roach  are  sporting 
below.  You  have  instructed  the  workmen  to  spare  the 
clumps  of  bank-willows,  that  the  wood-duck  may  have  a 
covert  in  winter,  and  that  the  liob-o-Lincolns  may  have 
a  quiet  nesting-place  in  the  spring. 

Sometimes  your  wife  —  too  kind  to  deny  such  favor 
—  will  stroll  with  you  along  the  meadow  banks,  and  you 
pick  meadow-daisies  in  memory  of  the  old  time.  Little 
Carry  weaves  them  into  rude  chaplets,  to  dress  the 
forehead  of  Paul ;  and  they  dance  along  the  greensward, 
and  switch  off  the  daffodils,  and  blow  away  the  dande- 
'ion  seeds,  to  see  if  their  wishes  are  to  come  true 
lamie  holds  a  buttercup  under  Carry's  chin,  to  find  if 


276  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

she  loves  gold ;  and  Paul,  the  rogue,  teases  them  bj 
sticking  a  thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under  Carry's  swift 
riding ;  but  he  is  fed  by  her  own  hand  with  the  coin 
breakfast- rolls.  The  nuts  are  gathered  in  time,  and 
stored  for  long  winter  evenings,  when  the  fire  is  burn 
ing  bright  and  cheerily,  —  a  true,  hickory  blaze,  whicl. 
sends  its  waving  gleams  over  eager,  smiling  faces,  and 
over  well-stored  book-shelves  and  portraits  of  dear  lost 
ones.  While  from  time  to  time  that  wife,  who  is  the 
soul  of  the  scene,  will  break  upon  the  children's  prattle, 
with  the  silver  melody  of  her  voice,  running  softly  and 
sweetly  through  the  couplets  of  Crabbe's  stones,  or  the 
witchery  of  the  Flodden  Tale. 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums,  and  play  at 
fox-and-geese  ;  and  Tray,  cherished  in  his  age,  and  old 
Milo,  petted  in  his  dotage,  lie  side  by  side  upon  the 
lion's  skin  before  the  blazing  hearth.  Little  Tomtit  — 
the  goldfinch  —  sits  sleeping  on  his  perch,  or  cocks  his 
eye  at  a  sudden  crackling  of  the  fire  for  a  familiar 
squint  upon  our  family  group. 

But  there  is  no  future  without  its  stra^  ing  clouds. 
Even  now  a  shadow  :s  trailing  along  the  lands*. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer.  The  leaves  are 
at  their  fullest.  A  southern  breeze  has  been  blowing 
op  the  valley  all  tho  morning,  and  the  light,  smoky 


EVENING.  277 

haze  hangs  in  the  distant  mountain-gaps  /ike  a  vt>il  ou 
beauty.  Jamie  has  been  busy  with  his  lessons,  and 
afterward  playing  with  Milo  upon  the  lawn.  Little 
Carry  has  come  in  from  a  long  ride,  —  her  face  bloom 
ing,  and  her  eyes  all  smiles  and  joy.  The  mother  has 
busied  herself  with  those  flowers  she  loves  so  well. 
Little  Paul,  they  say,  has  been  playing  in  the  meadow, 
and  old  Tray  has  gone  with  him. 

But  at  dinner-time,  Paul  does  not  come  back. 

"  Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I  say. 

The  mother  says  nothing ;  but  there  is  a  look  of 
anxiety  upon  her  face  that  disturbs  me.  Jamie  won 
ders  where  Paul  can  be,  and  he  saves  for  him  —  what 
ever  he  knows  Paul  will  like  —  a  henping  plateful. 
But  the  dinner-hour  passes,  and  Paul  does  not  come. 
Old  Tray  lies  in  the  sunshine  by  the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And  I,  though  I 
conceal  this  from  her,  find  my  fears  strangely  active. 
Something  like  instinct  guides  me  to  the  meadow  ;  I 
wander  down  the  brook-side,  calling  —  Paul !  Paul ! 
But  there  is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the  neighbors 
search;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil.  There  is  no -joy  that 
evening :  the  meal  passes  in  silence  ;  only  little  Carry, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asks  if  Paul  will  soon  come 
back.  All  the  night  we  search  and  call :  the  mother 
even,  braving  the  night-air,  and  running  here  and  there 
<ratil  the  morning  finds  us  sad  and  despairing. 


278  REVEUES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

That  day  —  the  next  —  cleared  uj  the  mystery;  but 
cleared  it  up  with  darkness.  Poor  /ittle  Paul !  he  has 
sunk  under  the  murderous  eddies  of  the  hrook  !  His 
boyish  prattle,  his  rosy  smiles,  his  artless  talk,  arc  lost 
to  us  forever ! 

I  will  not  tell  how,  nor  when,  we  found  him  ;  nor  will 
tell  of  our  desolate  home,  and  of  her  grief — the  first 
crushing  grief  of  her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide  noiseless, 
as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor  little  sleeper.  The 
house  seems  cold,  very  cold.  Yet  it  is  summer  weather ; 
and  the  south  breeze  plays  softly  along  the  meadow, 
and  softly  over  the  murderous  eddies  of  the  brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.  The  kind  mourners 
are  there  ;  —  it  is  easy  for  them  to  mourn  !  The  good 
clergyman  prays  by  the  bier :  —  "  O  Thou,  who  didst 
take  upon  thyself  human  woe,  and  drank  deep  of  every 
pang  in  life,  let  thy  Spirit  come  and  heal  this  grief,  and 
guide  toward  that  Better  Land,  where  justice  and  love 
shall  reign,  and  hearts  laden  with  anguish  shall  rest 
Forevermore !  " 

Weeks  roll  on  ;  and  a  smile  of  resignation  lights  up 
the  saddened  features  of  the  mother.  Those  dark 
mourn  ing- robes  speak  to  the  heart  deeper  and  more 
tenderly  than  even  the  bridal  costume.  She  lights 
ens  the  weight  of  your  grief  by  her  sweet  word-  ^f 


E  VENING.  279 

resignation.     "  Paul,"  she  says,   "  God   has  taken   our 
boy ! " 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left  —  great  and 
ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smiling  in  the  autumn  sunshine 
is  there ;  the  birds  are  in  the  forest  boughs ;  Jamie  and 
little  Carry  are  there  ;  and  she,  who  is  more  than  them 
all,  is  cheerful  and  content.  Heaven  has  taught  us  that 
the  brightest  future  has  its  clouds,  that  this  life  is  a 
motley  of  lights  and  shadows.  And  as  we  look  upon 
the  world  around  us,  and  upon  the  thousand  forms  of 
human  misery,  there  is  a  gladness  in  our  de%p  thanks 
giving. 

A  year  goes  by  ;  but  it  leaves  no  added  shadow  on 
our  hearth-stone.  The  vines  clamber  and  flourish  ;  the 
oaks  are  winning  age  and  grandeur.  Little  Carry  is 
blooming  into  the  pretty  coyness  of  girlhood ;  and 
Jamie,  with  his  dark  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  is  the  pride 
of  his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure  but  the  remembrance  of 
poor  little  Paul.  And  even  that,  chastened  as  it  is  with 
years,  is  rather  a  grateful  memorial  that  our  life  is  not 
all  here,  than  a  grief  that  weighs  upon  our  hearts. 

Sometimes,  leaving  little  Carry  and  Jamie  to  their 
play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the  willow-tree  beneath 
«rmcn  GUI  armvneoi  ooy  steeps  oaimi)  tor  tne  irea*. 
Awaking.  It  is  a  Sunday  in  the  week-day  of  our  life 
to  linger  by  the  little  grave,  —  to  hang  flowers  upon  the 


280  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

headstone,  and  to  breathe  a  prayer  that  our  little  Paul 
may  sleep  well  in  the  arras  of  Him  who  loveth  chil 
dren  ! 

And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  together  by  sor 
row  as  they  had  been  knit  by  joy, — a  silver  thread  min 
gled  with  the  gold,  —  follow  the  dead  one  to  the  Laud 
that  is  before  us,  until  at  last  we  come  to  reckon  the  boy 
as  living  in  the  new  home  which,  when  this  is  old,  shall 
be  ours  also.  And  my  spirit,  speaking  to  his  spirit  in 
the  evening  watches,  seems  to  say  joyfully,  —  so  joyfully 
that  the  te*ars  half  choke  the  utterance,  — "  Paul,  my 
boy,  we  will  be  there  !  " 

And  the  mother,  turning  her  face  to  mine,  so  that  I 
see  the  moisture  in  her  eye,  and  catch  its  heavenly  look, 
whispers  softly,  —  so  softly  that  an  angel  might  have 
said  it,  —  "  Yes,  dear,  we  will  be  THERE  ! " 


The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day  under  the  oaks 
was  ended.  But  a  crimson  belt  yet  lingered  over  the 
horizon,  though  the  stars  were  out. 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  surface  of  the 
brook.  I  took  my  gun  from  beside  the  tree,  and  t.n 
shot-pouch  from  its  limb,  and  whistling  for  Carlo,  —  as 
if  it  had  been  Tray,  —  I  strolled  over  the  bridge,  and 
iown  the  lane,  to  the  old  house  under  the  elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night ; — for  I  dreamed 
'hat  my  Eeverie  was  real. 


DATE  DUE 


dCTl    1972 


1987 


3   1970  00561 


Bi 

000328608 


